#ambient noise suppression

[uniquexblogs]

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[pookalicious-hq]

no. 1 fan ... sukuna ryomen x reader

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - since when did sukuna ryomen have a girlfriend? and why is she so cute (and absolutely perfect for him)? tags: basketball!au, fluff, swearing, sfw <3 masterlist

The gym lights caught on the glossy surface, a faint shimmer bouncing with every shift of motion. Tiny flecks of glitter sparkled like distant stars, the edges glinting silver against the stark backdrop of the jersey. A burst of pastel pink contrasted sharply, the soft hue radiating a kind of innocent charm that felt entirely out of place.

It was a detail almost too small to notice—yet somehow, it drew eyes in, an odd juxtaposition against the chaos of the pregame atmosphere. The gym was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished wood, players stretching, and the low hum of excited chatter from the stands. Sukuna Ryomen, lounging casually in the middle of his team’s warm-up drills, was the last person anyone expected to have such a thing plastered on his shoulder. But there it was. My Melody, a sweet little bunny holding a basketball.

Satoru was the first to spot it, of course.

“Aw, how cute, Sukuna-chan. Didn’t know you were into Sanrio like that.”

Sukuna turned, narrowing his eyes at the playful teasing in Satoru's voice. “The fuck are you on about now?”

Satoru just pointed, smirking as all eyes followed his gesture. "Your cute little stowaway there."

And there it was—bold against the red and black of Sukuna's jersey, a sticker of My Melody, holding a basketball positioned perfectly as if to dunk it. It was so out of place, yet it felt strangely fitting. Its innocence danced in stark contrast to Sukuna's menacing aura, and the sweetness of the bunny somehow managed to coexist with the intimidating presence of the player.

Sukuna glanced at the sticker and then smirked, barely able to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. His eyes softened just slightly, knowing exactly where it came from.

“Guess it’s not that bad,” he muttered under his breath.

No one knew who had put it there, but there was no mistaking it—Sukuna wasn’t bothered in the slightest. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made him smile.

“He’s so weird, I swear,” Satoru muttered, squinting across the gym floor as he slouched against the edge of the bench. The air around them crackled with energy, the squeak of sneakers on the polished hardwood floor echoing through the arena as players warmed up. The thudding sound of basketballs bouncing, the low hum of excited chatter from the crowd, and the faint whistle of the referee adding to the chaos all buzzed around them.

Suguru, already feeling the weight of Satoru's nonsense, pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to focus, pushing away the mounting noise as he geared up for the game. "Satoru, shut up. He’s literally just smiling."

"Exactly!" Satoru gestured with both hands, his voice carrying over the cacophony like a loud bell ringing. “I’ve never seen him... like this. It’s unnatural!”

Suguru flicked Satoru lightly in the forehead, the sharp sound of his fingers connecting with the skin cutting through the background noise. “You’re lucky he can’t hear you, idiot. Besides, he’s allowed to smile. It’s not a crime.”

“It’s so creepy, though!” Satoru rubbed his forehead dramatically, leaning back against the bench. His voice was exaggerated, filled with playful disdain. “I’ve never seen him so... soft. Gross. Eugh. What happened to the demon we all know and love?”

The gym seemed to buzz even louder as the players amped themselves up, a couple of them tossing passes back and forth with fast, sharp movements that made the air feel electric. Sneakers squeaked and slid across the court, some heavy breaths echoing as bodies shifted into the final preparations for the game.

Suguru, however, was still fighting for some semblance of focus, trying to shut out Satoru's ridiculousness as his mind sought that familiar pregame calm. He tried to breathe in rhythm with the ambient noise—the rustling of the crowd, the sharp claps of teammates slapping each other on the back—but Satoru just wouldn’t let up. "It’s because his girlfriend’s watching today," Suguru said casually, as if the thought didn’t even require a second glance.

Satoru snapped his head toward him so fast it almost looked like he was about to knock over the water bottle on the bench. “He has a girlfriend? How do you know?”

“Yuji told me about her yesterday,” Suguru said, brushing it off as if it were nothing. He wasn’t quite sure how to process the idea of Sukuna with someone so... normal, so he pushed it to the back of his mind, letting his thoughts return to the game.

“What about me?” 

Satoru’s stomach jolted, heart skipping in his chest. “Jesus—fuck, Yuji, you scared me!” he exclaimed, clutching his chest as if Yuji had just jumped out from behind him in a horror film.

Suddenly, Yuji’s face popped up right next to them, grinning widely with that unapologetically boyish enthusiasm. “Oops, sorry! I just heard my name and wanted to make sure you weren’t shit-talking me! Haha!”

The two seniors exchanged a look—Suguru, contemplating the comment, and Gojo, mildly entertained—but as usual, the latter barrelled straight past it. “Anyways, we were just wondering about Sukuna-chan’s little girlfriend. She’s here?”

The sound of basketballs slamming into the backboard reverberated loudly around them, rattling the floor beneath their feet as a player went for a dramatic dunk across the gym. The high-pitched swoosh of a net followed. Yet, the small chaos of the game only seemed to amplify Yuji's carefree nature, his laughter infectious.

He gave a single enthusiastic nod, expression lighting up with pure, uncontained excitement. “She should be! She just called to say she found a seat.”

The three of them turned toward the crowd, scanning the packed bleachers. It was almost impossible to pick out individual faces among the sea of fans, but they didn’t have to wonder for long why Yuji could find you so easily.

“There!” Yuji pointed, practically bouncing on his heels.

All at once, they saw you.

You weren’t loud or over the top, but there was something about you that drew attention, like a light you couldn’t help but turn toward. Your eyes sparkled with a warmth that didn’t belong in a crowd this rowdy, your face alight with unguarded joy. You leaned forward, effortlessly engaging the little girl beside you in a cheerful conversation, hands animated as you gestured toward the court.

The little girl giggled, clutching a handful of skittles you must have shared. It wasn’t just the candy; it was the way you leaned in, nodded attentively, and treated the child like her words carried the secrets of pandora’s box. The moment was so natural, so disarmingly sweet, that even Suguru had to admit he could see the charm.

“She’s just... giving away candy to kids?” Satoru blinked, eyebrows raised as though the sight was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen.

Suguru’s smile slowly turned into a gape, crossing his arms. “And apparently making everyone within a ten-foot radius feel like they’ve won the lottery. What a menace.”

“She’s adorable,” Satoru hissed, ignoring the sarcasm. “There’s no way Sukuna convinced someone like her to date him. I mean, look at her!” He gestured dramatically, nearly toppling off the bench.

“She’s smiling, not performing a miracle,” Suguru deadpanned. “Relax.”

“But that’s what’s weird about it!” Satoru insisted. “She’s the sunshine’s asshole, and he’s... I don’t even know what he is, probably just the asshole part.”

The three of them continued to watch as you apologized to a student who stumbled near you, even though it was clearly no fault of your own. You placed a steadying hand on their shoulder, offering a bright, reassuring smile that seemed to melt the poor kid’s embarrassment on the spot. A moment later, you turned back toward the court, your attention zeroing in on the players warming up.

Then, a laugh as melodic as an orchestra bubbled from your lips, captivating everyone within a 20-foot radius.

Heads turned—not just Sukuna’s, but several others, curious to see who’d spoken. Sukuna, however, didn’t seem fazed by the sound. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning the court like a predator waiting for its prey. A mere glance from a teammate was enough to send them scurrying in the opposite direction, but when he caught sight of you, his posture seemed to relax just slightly. His gaze softened, and for a brief second, he didn’t look like a demon—he looked... content.

“Holy shit,” Satoru muttered, leaning closer. “He’s smiling again. Suguru, this is unnatural. I don’t think I like it.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re just jealous someone actually loves him.”

“Jealous?” Satoru scoffed. “Please. I’m too fabulous to be contained by one person. It’s just—look at her! She’s pure, and he’s... him. Do you think she read his terms and conditions properly?”

Yuji, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear, his chest practically puffed out with pride as though her presence was his personal achievement. “Do you get it now?” he asked, turning toward the two seniors.

“Get what?” Gojo drawled, still squinting at her like she was a science experiment.

“Why she’s perfect for him,” Yuji said simply.

Satoru opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to argue, but Suguru cut him off with a raised hand. “You know what? He’s got a point.”

For a moment, even Satoru was quiet, his gaze drifting back to you. You were now laughing, your head tipped back slightly as the little girl beside her showed off her Skittles-stained tongue. The sound was bright, full, and utterly unrestrained—like you’d never learned how to hold back your joy.

Satoru sighed, flopping against the bench in defeat. “Okay, fine. She’s perfect. Whatever. But I still don’t get how he landed her.”

Suguru chuckled. “Maybe she sees something in him you don’t.”

“Oi, loudmouths—and Suguru. Get your asses moving.”

The voice that rang out was unmistakable: Sukuna, cutting through the chatter with his usual no-nonsense tone.

“Sir, yes sir!” Gojo saluted.

“God, I hate you.”

“Love you too, Captain!”

The gym was buzzing with the typical pre-game chaos, but Sukuna’s attention was elsewhere, drawn by the familiar warmth cutting through the din of the crowd. His gaze swept over the stands, and it didn’t take long for his eyes to land on you.

There you were—unmistakable. Even in the sea of faces, your presence stood out. The way your eyes sparkled when you caught his gaze, the playful curve of your lips as you gave him a wink.

Then, as if the universe had granted him a brief moment of peace in the chaos, you blew him a kiss. A simple gesture that made his chest tighten. He of course caught it effortlessly, bringing a hand to his heart in mock reverence, but it was the next movement that caused something unfamiliar to flicker inside him.

Without missing a beat, his hand dropped to his shoulder, tapping the My Melody sticker with a subtle grin. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sukuna, it was his unspoken reply to you affection.

The smile lingered on his face for just a moment longer before he wiped it away, a smirk taking its place as he stood tall, ready to head out onto the court.

Deleted scene:

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT WAS ALL BALL! OPEN YOUR GODDAMNED EYES.”

Your voice sliced through the gym like a whip, sharp enough to make heads turn. Conversations stuttered, sneakers skidded to a stop, and even the referee hesitated for a beat before remembering he was supposed to be an authority figure.

On the court, Sukuna barely reacted—barely. His stance remained firm, shoulders squared as he glared down the ref with the same look that had sent weaker opponents scrambling. But for a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered to the stands, finding you instantly.

His girl.

You were on your feet, fury blazing in your eyes, hands clenched into fists at your sides. The tension in your stance screamed protective, and fuck if that didn’t do something to him.

The gym erupted as the ref made it official. Technical foul on number 20 - Sukuna Ryomen.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “A tech? For what? Looking too scary? Boohoo.”

Satoru’s whistle cut through the noise as he turned to Suguru, his grin lazy but amused. “Oh, this is fun. You ever see someone go feral for Sukuna before?”

Suguru hummed, watching Sukuna carefully. “Not like this.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Satoru mused. “Usually, it’s just people going feral at him.”

Yuji snorted. “Right? And he’s actually letting her.”

Which was the weirdest part. Sukuna hated when people stuck their noses in his business. If this were anyone else—even a coach—he’d have shut them down with a glare and a stay the hell out of it.

But with you?

He was letting you bark at the ref, letting you take up space in his fight.

And even worse?

He liked it.

Whistles blew. The opposing team’s bench erupted into cheers, and the ref signaled for free throws.

“Bullshit,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

“Damn,” Satoru mused from the sidelines, still watching you with newfound amusement. “She’s got more fight in her than half the guys on the court.”

Suguru hummed in agreement. “And he’s actually letting her.”

Yuji grinned. “Ah, shit. She’s really gonna go off.”

And he was absolutely right.

Because as the opposing player stepped up to the free-throw line, your voice rang out again—clear, unwavering, and loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

“Oh, come on! You’re calling that a foul? What, is Sukuna just supposed to breathe and get penalized now? Maybe we should just wrap him in bubble wrap and call it a day!”

Scattered chuckles rippled through the stands, but you weren’t joking. You knew how people saw him—how they wanted to see him. A villain. A monster. A player too aggressive for his own good, a walking technical foul waiting to happen.

They didn’t see the discipline. The precision. The sheer skill it took to dominate the court the way he did.

They didn’t see him.

The ref shot you a warning look, but you only lifted your chin, undeterred.

“Terrible call,” you sang again, just loud enough for Yuji to hear.

“Yeah,” he called back with a chuckle. “But that’s just how it is for him.”

You exhaled sharply, frustration curling in your chest. “It’s not fair.”

Yuji just smiled. “He’s used to it.”

That didn’t make it right.

Back on the court, Sukuna set his stance, waiting for the rebound. He should have been focused—should have been calculating his next move—but instead, his gaze slid sideways, just for a second.

You were still standing. Still fuming on his behalf.

His lips curled.

The first free throw went up. The ball arced high, hit the rim—bounced once, twice—then rolled out.

The crowd erupted into noise, but you? You smirked.

“S’what you get for being weak,” you muttered under your breath, knowing damn well the shooter couldn’t hear you.

Sukuna did.

And though he didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it outright, something about the way he held himself shifted. Shoulders looser. Jaw unclenched.

He wasn’t alone in this.

You had his back.

And for a guy who’d spent most of his life being the villain, that was a weird fucking feeling.

The second free throw went in, but it didn’t matter. The moment the ball was inbounded, Sukuna was a force of nature, tearing down the court with single-minded determination.

And if, after scoring on the very next possession, he just so happened to glance toward the stands—seeking you out, locking eyes for the briefest of moments—well.

That was nobody’s business but his own.

And yours.

a/n: he's a huge red flag but i can't help but romanticize him... anyways sorry its been a while

mwah <3

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O7

“𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐒”

"The most annoying thing about Agent Min isn’t how easily he dodges your questions—it’s how effortlessly he outmatches your wit."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 7,4k

content: field trips, noma being curious as usual, yoongi being half amused half exasperated, yoongi being a smart lil shit and evading her questions, her growing frustrated, forced proximity, eery memorials and visceral reactions.

— author’s note

Hiii peeps!!!

It’s been a long time coming huh??? FINALLY chapter 7 reached the goals yesterday!!! *cue the confetti that i absolutely do not have the energy to throw*

I’ve been writing this chapter for what feels like an eternity (literally aged 10 years minimum) but I just finished the last scene today and edited and proofread it just now soooo I hope everything’s okay??? If you see a typo… no you didn’t (ಥ﹏ಥ).

Not gonna lie to you, I had to reread chapter 6 because I straight up forgot whether I had tasked Yoongi and Noma to the Monitoring Hub or if that was someone else ahahaha—spoiler alert: it was Tae and Jungkook who got stuck with that chore, not Yoongi and Y/N. Slay for us!

Then I reread some of my notes and remembered some plotlines I had emotionally suppressed and well… the last scene about the park basically wrote itself. Yeah. It’s eery. Prepare yourselves.

There’s SO much to unpack from this fic and SO little we have even scratched the surface of. I know The 25th Hour is my most head-wrecking fanfic so PLEASE, feel free to vomit ALL of your theories at me hahaha. I’m here for the chaos.

As always—remember my fics are sloooooow paced and sloooooow burn because my brain doesn’t know how to operate differently. Don’t expect fast plot movement, I’m intentionally taking my time to build the world and lay tiny breadcrumbs for you to gather. Pick them up. Put them in your emotional basket. Analyze them to your heart’s content.

Enjoy, goblins! <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

The streets feel fundamentally wrong.  

It's not something you can quantify, not yet. The temperature is stable, the air quality within acceptable parameters, and the ambient noise levels hover at a predictable 67 decibels. 

But still, something feels… off.  

Sector 4 has always been bustling, it is a fact you do not question. 

Coffee shops line the sidewalks—windows are fogged with steam and promises of overpriced caffeine. Restaurants have flickering neon signs in rhythmic patterns that seem to draw people in inevitably. Storefronts display fashion statements that you’ve never found appealing but still manage to catch your eye every time you pass them.  

You do like fashion—at least, theoretically. 

You’ve never bought anything from these stores, though. 

Agent Min walks ahead of you now, stride measured as always. You recalibrate your position almost immediately, adjusting your pace to walk beside him instead of behind. 

Not behind him. Never behind him.  

You don’t know why it matters so much, but it does. To you, at least. Or maybe to whatever part of you keeps acting out without conscious thought lately.  

Your eyes betray you again, flickering to his gloved hand for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Covered, as always. Black leather stretched taut over fingers that move very precisely—cataloging, calculating, anticipating.  

You’re still stuck on his earlier words: “Protection from me.”

What did he mean by that? Is his touch scalding? Dangerous? 

You haven’t seen him touch anyone else without those gloves—not once since arriving at the facility. It’s plausible enough to form a hypothesis around it, but not enough to test it without risking another nosebleed—or worse.  

Still… you want to test it anyway.  

And then there’s the matter of your own gloves—thin fabric ones that feel more like a restriction than protection. 

Nobody else wears them except Yoongi. Just him and you. You and him.  

Why? Why? Why? Why?  

The question loops through your mind like a broken record, each repetition louder than the last until it feels like static buzzing beneath your skin. 

You want to ask him outright, even though you know it will get you nowhere.  

But still… you want to ask.

“Why gloves?”  

The words slip out before your analytical mind can filter them properly—an impulsive breach of protocol that surprises even you.  

Yoongi sighs—a sound weighted with irritation but tempered by something softer beneath—and doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze flickers around the street instead, cataloging details invisible to your untrained eye.

“Stop staring at my hand,” he says finally, voice low enough that only you can hear over the ambient noise of Sector 4’s busiest avenue.

“I wasn’t staring at your hand,” you counter, the denial emerging with suspicious automaticity.

And technically, it’s not a lie. 

Your focus was on the glove itself—the material composition, the precision fit, the way it moves with his fingers as if designed specifically for his unique biomechanics.

“My gloves cover my hands,” he points out, logic impeccable as always. “You looking at my glove is functionally equivalent to looking at my hand.”

Your analytical mind acknowledges the validity of his reasoning—the correlation between glove and hand approaches 99.7% in this context.

“Stop trying to be clever,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching upward by approximately 0.3 millimeters—a microexpression your body recognizes as amusement despite your mind having no reference point for it.

“I’m not trying to be clever,” you respond, your tone matching his. “Fabric is not skin. I was technically not observing your hand but rather the material covering it.”

His eyes narrow by exactly 1.2 millimeters. “You’re doing it right now.”

“Doing what?”

“Attempting to establish semantic superiority through technical correctness.”

“I am not.”

“You are. Stop it.”

Your lips press together, suppressing what feels suspiciously like a smile. Your gaze shifts to his profile, noting the controlled tension in his jaw, the rhythm of his breathing.

“Why?” The question emerges softer than intended.

He turns, eyes meeting yours with unsettling directness. 

The contact lasts 2.7 seconds—42% longer than standard conversational eye contact.

“Because,” his eyes flicker gold for precisely 0.3 seconds, “being intellectual antagonists with each other is essentially our foreplay.”

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.37%.

“That would imply sexual attraction.”

“Yes, it would.”

“Are you sexually attracted to me?”

He doesn’t respond. 

You weren’t expecting him to.

Doesn’t make it less annoying.

But curiosity nags at you as your eyes flicker down to his gloves. And before you can process your next question, you’re already voicing it out.

"Can I hold your hand?"

Agent Min halts mid-step, his shoulders stiffening by precisely 0.6 centimeters. The sigh that follows is audible, weighted with the kind of exasperation that suggests this isn't the first time he's had to deal with you derailing his focus. 

"Not this again," he mutters, his voice carrying the same energy as someone who just realized they forgot to defrost the chicken for dinner.

You blink up at him, unbothered by the irritation radiating off of him in waves. 

“What? I’m serious."

He turns his head slowly, mint-green hair catching the sunlight in a way that seems almost too vibrant for someone with such a perpetually dark aura. His eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in that uniquely way of his that suggests he's already regretting engaging with you.

"You want to hold my hand," he repeats flatly, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it sound less ridiculous.

"Yes." You nod once, decisively. "Without the gloves."

His jaw tightens by 3 degrees, and for a moment, you think he might ignore you entirely. But then he exhales sharply through his nose—an audible punctuation mark to his mounting frustration—and tilts his head just enough to meet your gaze.

"Why?" he asks, voice low and measured, like he's trying to reason with a particularly stubborn child.

You pause, considering the question. 

Why do you want to hold his hand? 

It’s not like you’ve ever been particularly interested in physical contact before. In fact, you generally find it inefficient and unnecessary—an outdated social construct with no practical application in most scenarios.

But this feels... different. Important. Like there’s some unquantifiable variable at play that your analytical mind can’t quite grasp.

"I don’t know," you admit finally, your tone carrying the same blunt honesty that has gotten you into trouble more times than you can count. "I just do."

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly—1.2 seconds exactly—before pinching the bridge of his nose through the fabric of his glove. 

“You can’t just go around asking people if you can hold their hands."

"Why not?" Your brow furrows as you process his response. "Is it against protocol?"

"It’s not about protocol," he says, dropping his hand back to his side with a resigned sigh. "It’s about basic social norms."

"Social norms are arbitrary constructs," you argue, crossing your arms over your chest. "If I want to hold your hand and you don’t explicitly object, then what’s the issue?"

"The issue," he says slowly, as if explaining quantum mechanics to a toddler, "is that most people don’t ask questions like that because they understand how it might make someone else feel."

You tilt your head slightly, analyzing his expression for any sign of genuine discomfort. His face remains impassive—calm but guarded, like he’s carefully controlling every microexpression to avoid giving anything away.

"I don’t see how it would make you feel anything," you say finally, your tone more curious than defensive. "It’s just skin-to-skin contact. Statistically insignificant unless there’s some kind of chemical reaction involved."

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment—4.7 seconds exactly—before shaking his head slightly and muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like why me?

"You’re impossible," he says finally, turning away from you and resuming his perfectly measured stride down the street.

You fall into step beside him without hesitation, adjusting your pace to match his once again. 

“You didn’t answer my question," you point out after exactly 3 seconds of silence.

"I thought I did," he replies dryly.

"No," you counter, your tone taking on that annoyingly persistent edge that you realize seems to get under his skin. "You explained why most people wouldn’t ask to hold someone’s hand. You didn’t explain why I shouldn’t ask."

He exhales sharply again—louder this time—and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flickers briefly to your gloved hands before returning to the path ahead.

"Because it’s not normal," he says finally.

"Neither is wearing gloves all the time," you shoot back without missing a beat.

His lips twitch upward for 0.2 seconds before flattening again—a microexpression so fleeting that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. 

But you do.

"Fair," he mutters under his breath.

You take this as a victory and press on. "So? Can I?"

"No." 

"But why?" Your voice edges into what could almost be described as a whine—not because you’re upset, but because you genuinely don’t understand why he’s being so difficult about something so seemingly insignificant.

Yoongi stops abruptly again—his second unplanned halt in less than five minutes—and turns to face you fully this time. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your pulse spike by 8 beats per minute.

"Because," he says slowly, enunciating each syllable like it physically pains him to explain this to you, "if I let you hold my hand without gloves, it won’t stop there."

You blink, processing his words. 

"What do you mean it won't stop there?" 

Your head tilts exactly 4.3 degrees to the right—a physical manifestation of your curiosity. Yoongi's jaw tightens, the muscle visibly tensing beneath his skin. 

"Just drop it."

"Is it just the hands?" you press, undeterred by his obvious discomfort. "Or would any skin contact cause this... whatever it is you're concerned about?"

"Any skin contact," he answers flatly.

You process this new variable. "So if I touch any part of your skin, the reaction would be the same?"

"Yes." 

His response is clipped, precise—clearly hoping brevity will discourage further inquiry.

It doesn't.

"Is that why we're both covered head to toe? To prevent skin contact?" 

The question emerges as you glance down at your own tactical gear, noting how thoroughly it encases your body.

"Yes."

"But not our faces," you point out, studying the exposed skin of his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead. "Our faces remain uncovered."

He exhales, the sound carrying precisely 23% more frustration than his previous sigh. 

"Covering our faces would make us suspicious to CHRONOS agents. We need to blend in."

Your analysis immediately detects the logical inconsistency. 

“Your resistance movement seems quite popular among CHRONOS employees. I've counted at least 27 defectors in your facility."

"Mhm."

"How come agents don't recognize you then?" The question presents itself naturally as you catalog variables. "Wouldn't they have put a face to your name by now? Especially given your apparent leadership position?"

"Part of my ability."

Your temporal readings spike by 0.12% at the mention of his ability. You've been collecting fragments of information since arriving, piecing together a picture of what each team member can do. But Yoongi's ability remains the most significant unknown variable.

"What's your ability?" You ask directly, knowing the probability of receiving a straightforward answer approaches zero.

Indeed, his lips quirk upward—0.3 millimeters, right side only. 

"Guess."

You narrow your eyes, cataloging the available data:

- His ability relates to temporal manipulation

- It affects perception

- It involves skin contact

- It has restoration properties, as demonstrated with your glove

"Time manipulation," you venture, knowing it's insufficient but hoping to prompt elaboration.

"Not specific enough." 

"Temporal reconstruction?" You recalibrate, adding the restoration variable.

He makes that sound again—the one that's almost amusement but contains too much restraint. 

“Closer."

Your analytical mind sorts through theoretical temporal abilities, discarding those incompatible with observed phenomena. 

“Chronological restoration with perceptual manipulation components."

His eyebrow raises by exactly 0.4 centimeters. "Sometimes I forget how unnecessarily technical you can be."

"Is that accurate?" you press.

"Parts of it." 

His attention shifts to the street ahead, where the monitoring hub should be visible. But it isn't. Not where your memory insists it should be.

You follow his gaze, temporal cognition struggling to reconcile the discrepancy. 

"The hub is missing."

"No," he corrects, "it's been moved. Remember?"

The correction creates a curious double-vision effect in your cognitive processing—you simultaneously remember the hub at its original location AND at its new position three blocks east.

Your nose starts bleeding.

Agent Min doesn't even look—simply extends the black handkerchief towards your nose. 

"Stop trying to hold both memories at once," he instructs, voice dropping to 42 decibels. "Accept the new one as current reality while maintaining awareness that it's been altered."

"That's contradictory," you argue, pressing the handkerchief to your nose.

"Not to your brain, it isn't." His eyes never leave the street ahead, yet you sense his focus remains partially on you. "Your temporal signature allows you to perceive both timelines simultaneously. The cognitive dissonance is what causes the bleeding."

"How do you know so much about my temporal signature?" The question emerges with sudden intensity.

His jaw tightens. "Focus on the mission."

"Answer the question."

"No."

Your frustration spikes by approximately 37%. 

“You know significantly more about my physiological responses than should be possible given our limited interaction history."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Classified."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes—a social gesture you've never found particularly productive. 

“That's not an answer."

"It's all you're getting right now." His tone shifts, carrying a finality that suggests further inquiry would be pointless.

Your gaze returns to the street, where two distinct sets of memories continue to overlap in your perception. The monitoring hub that should be directly ahead isn't there. Instead, an upscale coffee shop occupies the space, patrons moving in and out with the synchronized efficiency of people who have no idea reality has been restructured around them.

"They don't notice," you murmur, observing the civilians. "They genuinely believe that coffee shop has always been there."

"Yes." Agent Min's confirmation is unnecessary but appreciated. "For them, reality is singular and consistent. No contradictions."

"And for us?"

His eyes meet yours briefly. "For Outliers, reality is... negotiable."

“Outliers. That’s me now, too.”

"Yes. People whose temporal signatures resist CHRONOS manipulation," he elaborates, voice dropping lower. "People who remember when reality changes. People who can see through the illusion."

"Like right now," you note, focusing on the coffee shop while maintaining awareness of the monitoring hub that should occupy its space. "I can hold both versions simultaneously."

"Exactly." For once, he doesn't sound annoyed by your analysis. "That's what makes you valuable. And dangerous."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.42%.

Agent Min's eyes flick to your wrist. "We need to stabilize you before continuing. Your variance is climbing."

"I'm fine," you counter, though the persistent throbbing behind your eyes suggests otherwise.

"You're not." His contradiction carries no room for debate. "Find somewhere quiet. Now."

You scan the area, identifying a narrow alley between buildings approximately 34 meters ahead. 

“There."

He follows your gaze and nods once, already adjusting his trajectory. His stride lengthens by precisely 0.07 meters—not enough for casual observation to detect, but you note the change immediately.

The alley provides 68% reduction in ambient noise and 74% decrease in visual stimuli—optimal conditions for temporal stabilization according to the limited data you've gathered.

Agent Min positions himself at precisely 47 centimeters from you—close enough for what you now understand is temporal alignment, but far enough to maintain whatever invisible boundary he's established.

"Your variance is too high," he states, glancing at your watch. "We need to reduce it before continuing."

"How?" The question is direct, clinical—exactly how you intend it.

His expression shifts, eyes darkening by approximately 12%. "Proximity and synchronized breathing. It's slow but effective."

Your analytical mind immediately identifies the logical gap. 

"If proximity helps stabilize my temporal signature, then closer proximity should logically be more efficient. Physical contact would provide maximum efficiency."

His jaw tightens so suddenly you can almost hear the teeth grinding. 

"No."

"Why not? It's the most logical solution."

"Because I said so." 

The childish response seems deliberately designed to irritate you.

It works.

"That's not a scientifically valid reason," you counter, crossing your arms. "Is there another method besides proximity and breathing?"

"No." 

His response comes too quickly—0.37 seconds faster than his average response time. You narrow your eyes, analytical mind immediately flagging the statistical anomaly. 

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying," he counters, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that somehow makes your skin prickle despite the climate-controlled tactical gear. "I'm just not telling you the whole truth."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not." His lips quirk upward in that infuriating half-smile. "One involves active deception. The other involves strategic omission."

"Strategic omission," you repeat, the term rolling off your tongue with obvious distaste. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"We've always called it that. You just don't remember."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps again: Temporal variance: 1.57%.

"Your variance is still climbing," he notes, voice shifting to something that might almost be concern if you didn't know better. "Focus on your breathing. Match mine."

You want to argue further, to push until he breaks and gives you the answers your analytical mind craves. But the pressure behind your eyes is intensifying, and your temporal readings are becoming increasingly unstable.

"Fine," you concede, though the word carries more edge than intended. "Breathing."

He inhales slowly—4 seconds in, 6 seconds out—establishing a rhythm that your body automatically begins to follow. 

The synchronization feels practiced, like muscle memory you shouldn't possess.

"Why do I know this pattern?" 

"Because your body remembers even when your mind doesn't."

"You keep saying that. It is not scientifically possible."

"Then why is it working?”

Your temporal variance begins to decrease—1.52%, 1.47%, 1.39%—the numbers falling in precise correlation with your synchronized breathing.

"Fascinating," you murmur, analytical mind already calculating the energy transfer mechanisms that might explain this phenomenon. "The temporal resonance between our signatures creates a stabilizing effect that—"

"Stop analyzing it," he interrupts, the command carrying a sharp edge. "The more you try to understand it, the worse your variance gets."

"That's counterintuitive."

"Welcome to temporal physics." His tone carries a dry humor that catches you off guard. "Where everything you think you know is wrong, and trying to figure out why makes your nose bleed."

Despite yourself, your lips twitch upward. 

Illogical. 

“That's an inefficient system."

"It's by design." His eyes never leave yours as he continues the breathing pattern. "CHRONOS doesn't want people understanding how reality actually works."

"And you do?"

A softening around the eyes that lasts precisely 0.7 seconds swallows his pupils before disappearing. 

"I want you to understand. Just not all at once."

The admission carries more weight than it should, creating a curious pressure in your chest that defies analytical categorization.

Your variance continues to decrease—1.31%, 1.24%, 1.18%—each number bringing you closer to stability.

"There's something you're not telling me," you state, the certainty absolute despite having no empirical evidence to support it.

His lips quirk upward—0.4 millimeters, right side only. 

"There are approximately 7,429 things I'm not telling you, A-735. You'll have to be more specific."

"About stabilization methods." Your eyes narrow, focusing on the micro-expressions that betray him. "There's another way, isn't there? Something more efficient than this."

His breathing pattern falters for exactly 0.3 seconds—a statistical anomaly that confirms your hypothesis.

"Yes," he admits finally, the word emerging with obvious reluctance.

"What is it?"

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening to that dangerous shade that makes your pulse accelerate by 7.2 beats per minute.

"Nothing you need to know right now."

"I disagree."

"Shocking."

The sarcasm in his tone is so thick you could practically measure its density. Strangely, it registers a progress in your head. 

"Is it dangerous?" 

“Not in the way you're thinking."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

He holds your gaze for exactly 3.7 seconds—42% longer than standard conversational eye contact. 

“Because once you know, you'll want to try it. And once you try it..." He pauses, something raw and unguarded flashing in his eyes. "Let's just say it complicates things."

"How?"

"Classified."

You exhale sharply through your nose, frustration spiking by approximately 43%. 

"You can't just classify everything you don't want to explain."

"Actually," he counters, that infuriating half-smile returning, "I can. It's one of the perks of being in charge."

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told." His eyes flicker to your watch. "1.03%. Almost stable."

Your variance continues to decrease—0.97%, 0.92%, 0.88%—each number bringing you closer to the standard range.

"We should continue the mission," you state once your readings stabilize at 0.84%.

He nods once, already turning toward the street. But before he can take a step, you catch his wrist—your gloved fingers wrapping around the tactical material covering his arm.

He freezes, entire body tensing like you've applied an electric shock.

"This isn't over," you state, voice low and precise. "I will figure it out."

His eyes meet yours, something dark and dangerous flickering in their depths. 

"I know you will. You always do."

The statement carries too much weight, too much history that you can't access. But before you can question it, he gently extracts his wrist from your grip and steps back onto the street.

You follow, sorting through the fragments of information, piecing together the puzzle that is Agent Min.

He's hiding something. Something important. Something about you, about him, about whatever connection exists between you that defies logical explanation.

And you're definitely going to figure out what it is.

You’ve been walking for exactly twenty-three minutes.

And Agent Min has looked at you ten times in the past five.

Each glance is quick—measured flickers of attention, like he’s trying to calculate something without setting off an alarm.

You count them anyway. You always count things when you don’t know what they mean.

The silence stretches between you, and it’s thick; clinging really. You expected him to appreciate it—your restraint, your control, your refusal to ask questions he won’t answer.

But instead, he’s growing restless.

Another glance. Quick. Sharp.

You stop walking.

He takes two more steps before realizing you aren’t following, turning around with a tilt of his head that would seem casual if it weren’t so obviously deliberate.

You cross your arms. Narrow your eyes. Catalog the slight shift in his posture.

“What.”

It comes out flat. Demanding.

He exhales—short, controlled, dismissive.

“Nothing.”

You frown, recalculating. “Then stop looking at me.”

He raises an eyebrow by approximately 0.5 centimeters. Very deliberate. Very measured.

“Not looking at you.”

You tilt your head, mirroring his earlier gesture.

“Incorrect. You’ve looked at me ten times in the last five minutes. Nine, if you want to exclude peripheral glances.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, which statistically increases the likelihood that he’s internally debating whether arguing is worth it.

You decide to press anyway. “Why?”

His mouth tightens, a minuscule shift of muscle you might have missed before. Not now. Now you notice everything.

“You’re distracting,” he says finally. Short. Clipped. Like ripping off a bandage.

You blink, recalibrating.

“How?”

He sighs, heavier this time—more oxygen expended, betraying more irritation than he probably intends.

“You’re…” He searches for the word like it’s a personal affront to have to find it. “…loud.”

“I’m not speaking.”

“Exactly.”

You process that.

“So my silence is distracting.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re used to me questioning you.”

“Partly.”

Your eyes narrow. His left hand flexes at his side, the faint creak of leather betraying tension he’s probably holding in check.

“Then elaborate,” you say. Curious. Intrigued despite yourself.

“No.”

You resist the urge to sigh back at him—your own version of his exasperation. 

“Is it proximity?” you try again.  “I can increase distance if needed.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—barely—but enough to register.

“It’s not proximity,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Then what is it?”

His eyes flicker back to you, sharp and cutting.

“You’re unpredictable,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

You tilt your head again, absorbing that.

“Unpredictability usually denotes a flaw in pattern recognition,” you say thoughtfully. “And you pride yourself on anticipating variables.”

His expression tightens, the faintest edge of irritation sparking.

Good. You’re getting somewhere.

“You’re not a variable,” he says finally, voice low. “You’re an anomaly.”

Your heart stutters—not from sentiment, but from the weight of the word.

Anomaly. Noma.

The nickname he’s never explained.

You hold his gaze, cataloging the dilation of his pupils, the slight tremor in his exhale.

0.4 seconds too long before he looks away.

Enough to register. Enough to matter.

You tilt your head a fraction to the left. Testing. Probing. 

“Your behavior denotes a penchant for sadism,” you observe. Neutral enough to pretend the words don’t sting a little when they land between you.

Yoongi exhales—slow, the faintest curl of amusement threading through the air. 

“Because I’m sadistic, clearly,” he mutters, voice rougher than necessary. 

Calculated imperfection.

You narrow your eyes. Catalog the rhythm of his steps, how they slow imperceptibly as you fall into pace again, how the ambient noise seems to dull when he speaks.

“You are being purposefully obtuse,” you accuse, sharper this time. “Being wistfully cryptic does not align with leadership traits. I would assume the leader of the 7th Hour would not engage in childish tactics.”

A beat.

He hums low in his throat—a noise of neither agreement nor denial. More like he’s tasting your words, deciding whether to bother answering at all.

“Me?” he says finally, deadpan. “Childish? Never.”

The dryness of it slashes across your skin like a blade dipped in velvet.

You scowl, which only earns you another flicker of that infuriating almost-smirk.

“I expected more,” you say, voice clipped. Measured. “That is on me for applying inappropriate expectations.”

“You’ll learn.” His tone drops, lazy and lethal. “Eventually.”

The way he says it—you’ll learn—prickles under your skin. 

Because it doesn’t sound like a threat.

It sounds like a promise.

Your body catalogues the microadjustments again: the flex of leather at his hands, the sharp lines of his jaw as he grinds out the words with so little effort it’s almost mocking.

You resist the irrational urge to step closer.

Proximity is inefficient. Emotional responses disrupt cognitive processing.

You recite it mentally like a catechism.

Still.

The question rises, unbidden.

The same way it seems to always do with him.

“What is the mission objective?”

Blunt. Necessary. Something to tether yourself back to reason.

He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re a smart girl,” he says instead, so casually it almost doesn’t register as condescension. Almost. “You’ll figure it out.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. Inefficient communication strategies. You’re tempted to cite the statistical decrease in operational success rates when leadership fails to fully brief its agents, but he’s baiting you. Purposefully.

And you, predictably, are already chasing.

“Statistically,” you begin, voice taut with precision, “the likelihood of successful insertion without a clear objective—”

“Statistically,” he cuts in, unbothered, “there shouldn’t even be a 25th hour.”

The implication lands harder than it should.

You tighten your jaw, recalibrating, watching how he watches you.

Like he’s daring you to keep up.

“You are evading,” you say. “Obfuscating under the guise of intellectual superiority.”

“Am I?” he says, feigning disinterest. His shoulders shrug—barely, beautifully. “Or maybe you just don’t like not being the smartest person in the room.”

You blink once. Slow. Methodical.

Your pulse betrays you anyway, kicking up by approximately 6 bpm.

“You overestimate your own cleverness,” you say evenly, even though some traitorous part of you wants him to keep doing it. 

Keep outsmarting you. Keep sparring until the tension snaps under its own weight.

“You underestimate my patience,” he counters.

Another tiny smirk. Quicker this time. Sharper.

Your chest feels too tight around your ribs.

Inefficient physiological response.

You step away—not because you want distance, but because your processing centers are beginning to overload. You need new data. A new angle.

You pivot sharply toward the park ahead.

Three steps away before you hear his chuckle—so quiet you almost mistake it for a glitch in ambient noise.

You don’t turn back.

Instead, you focus on the new structure—the park that wasn’t there before.

It waits ahead, pristine and out of place. Grass too green. Air too clean. Symmetry too perfect.

Manufactured. Synthetic.

You slow your pace, narrowing your eyes, cataloging inconsistencies: tree spacing (1.3 meters apart, unnaturally even), the curvature of the path (identical to simulation model 8C), the temperature drop (2 degrees lower than the surrounding sector).

You feel Yoongi’s presence a few steps behind you. Not following. Not chasing.

Waiting.

Just like he always does.

Just like he always has.

And somehow, despite everything you know—despite every logic protocol firing in your mind—you want him to follow anyway.

You inhale sharply. Taste static on your tongue.

Focus.

Not on him.

On the mission.

On the park.

Focus on anything except the way Min Yoongi—a ghost, an anomaly—manages to outsmart you without even trying.

So that’s what you do—you focus forward, eyes locking onto the new structure rising ahead of you—all marble paths and manicured trees and gentle, glistening statues under the waning light.

A park that didn’t exist last week.

A plaza that hums wrong against your skin.

Your steps slow as you approach, instinct warning you even before your mind can fully process it.

You analyze the angles of the paths. The symmetry of the displays. The too-perfect gloss of the stone.

The air feels wrong here—too still, like it's been filtered of something vital.

But curiosity nags at you. It always does, when things defy explanations.

You step forward into the park, assessing its dimensions with a precision that seems excessive even to you. The perimeter measures exactly 247.8 meters around. The pathways curve at identical 30-degree angles. The statues are placed at equidistant intervals of precisely 12.4 meters.

Perfect. Too perfect.

Your temporal readings spike by 0.17% as you observe families strolling casually through what your analytical mind categorizes as a statistical impossibility. A man pushes a stroller past a bronze figure frozen mid-gesture. A couple takes selfies beneath the outstretched arm of another.

"The Garden of Stability," reads a polished plaque at the entrance. "Honoring those who sacrificed to maintain our timeline."

You've never seen this place before. You're certain of it. 

Yet your Chrono-Sync Watch registers no anomalies beyond the acceptable variance threshold.

Curious.

You move deeper into the garden, cataloging details: like the fact that the statues are eerily lifelike—capturing expressions with a fidelity that exceeds current manufacturing capabilities by approximately 27%. 

Furthermore, each statue has a small plaque fixed to its base. 

You approach the nearest one, a figure of a woman with her hand extended, fingers splayed as if reaching for something just beyond grasp.

"In memory of Eska Thior—sacrificed herself to stabilize Sector 7 during the temporal disturbance of 2156."

Your eyes narrow as you analyze the woman's expression. 

The sculptor has captured what should be determination, but there's something else—something in the eyes that registers as wrong. 

Your visual processing identifies it as fear, not resolve.

You move to the next statue. A man looking skyward, one foot slightly raised as if caught mid-step.

"In memory of Vayon Zesian—sacrificed himself to protect civilian timelines during the Sector 4 anomaly."

The black man's face is frozen in what the plaque suggests is awe or reverence. But your pattern recognition flags inconsistencies: the tension in his jaw is 38% higher than would be expected in a reverent expression. His fingers are curved at angles suggesting resistance, not surrender.

Your head throbs—a dull, persistent ache that intensifies as you catalog each discrepancy. Yet you continue, your analytical mind demanding more data despite the physical discomfort.

A sharp tug at your wrist interrupts your analysis. You turn, ready to object to the invasion of your personal space, when you register Agent Min's face exactly 31.7 centimeters from yours. His eyes contain a warning that makes no logical sense given the context.

"Shh," he says, the sound barely audible at 22 decibels. "Act normal."

You blink, processing both the command and the unusual tension in his posture. His hand remains on your wrist, gloved fingers gripping with precisely 42% more pressure than necessary for attention-getting purposes.

"This wasn't here yesterday," you whisper, your voice automatically matching his volume. "It's new."

"Yes, it is," he confirms, his eyes never meeting yours. Instead, they scan the perimeter. "And I'd advise against looking at the statues."

The request is illogical. You're already looking at them. You've already cataloged five discrepancies and three statistical anomalies in their design.

"Why?" you ask, the question forming before you can process the tension radiating from his body.

You turn away from him precisely as he tightens his grip—too late to stop your movement. Your eyes land on a statue directly ahead, positioned 15.3 meters from your current location. 

A man in a CHRONOS uniform, arms outstretched as if embracing the air around him.

Robin.

Your cognitive processes stutter, creating a 0.7-second delay between visual input and meaning assignment. 

Robin. Cubicle 47-B. Coffee preference: black with one sugar. Temporal compliance rating: 98.7%. Lunch companion: yesterday, 12:37 PM to 1:14 PM.

"That's Robin," you state, your voice dropping to 19 decibels. "I had lunch with him yesterday."

Your stomach contracts unexpectedly, digestive acids rising by approximately 37%. Your neural pathways struggle to reconcile the contradiction: Robin alive yesterday. Robin memorialized today.

Robin moving, breathing, complaining about the cafeteria's tempeh option yesterday.

Robin frozen in bronze today.

No fabrication facility could produce a statue this detailed in less than 24 hours. 

The metallurgical processes alone would require at minimum 72 hours for casting and cooling, with an additional 48 for detailing and patina development.

Unless...

Your analytical mind reaches the conclusion precisely as your stomach lurches again—a visceral response you didn't anticipate and cannot control.

They're not statues.

"We need to leave," Agent Min says, voice pitched extremely low. 

His fingers adjust on your wrist, shifting downward by 2.3 centimeters until they rest against the pulse point where your glove meets your sleeve.

Your heart rate increases by 13.7 beats per minute.

Not from his touch. From the realization.

"They're not statues," you confirm aloud, your voice clinical despite the acid burning the back of your throat. "They're people. Frozen in some form of temporal stasis."

Agent Min's jaw tightens, the muscle visibly tensing beneath his skin. 

“Not here," he warns, his voice barely audible. "Camera at your two o'clock, range 17 meters. Audio capture capabilities."

You process this new variable, immediately adjusting your behavior patterns. Your posture shifts by 4.3 degrees—more casual, less alert. Your expression recalibrates to something 76% more neutral.

"The craftsmanship is remarkable," you say at standard conversational volume, the words feeling like ash on your tongue. "Such attention to detail."

Agent Min's eyes flash with something that might be approval if it weren't overshadowed by urgency. 

“We should continue our walk," he says evenly. "There's more to see in Sector 4."

His fingers remain at your pulse point for exactly 2.7 seconds longer than necessary before releasing. The warmth lingers—a ghost sensation you struggle to categorize.

You follow his lead, moving away from Robin's frozen form with measured steps despite the increasing pressure in your chest. Your breathing adjusts automatically—in for 4 seconds, out for 6—matching the pattern Agent Min established earlier.

Families continue to mill around you, oblivious to the horror disguised as art. A child points at Robin's statue, tugging at her mother's sleeve.

"He looks so happy, mommy! Like he's giving everyone a big hug!"

Your vision blurs by approximately 12%—an inexplicable visual phenomenon you'll need to analyze later.

Agent Min positions himself precisely 47 centimeters to your left—close enough for temporal alignment, far enough to maintain whatever invisible boundary he's established. 

But something has changed. 

His posture carries 27% more tension than before, and his eyes scan the area with a renowned frequency.

"Don't look back," he instructs as you approach the park's exit. "And whatever you do, don't react when I tell you this."

You maintain your neutral expression, eyes fixed forward as instructed.

"There are seventeen of them in this garden," he says, voice low and controlled. "All from your monitoring facility. All disappeared within the last 72 hours."

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.12%.

A warning. Your emotional response is affecting your temporal stability.

You inhale slowly, forcing your analytical mind to take precedence over the uncomfortable pressure building behind your sternum.

"Probability of coincidence: less than 0.003%," you calculate aloud, keeping your voice steady despite the data.

"It's not a coincidence," he confirms, voice dropping even lower. "It's a message."

"For who?"

His eyes meet yours briefly—0.8 seconds of direct contact that somehow feels heavier than it should.

"For us," he says simply. "For you."

Your temporal variance increases to 1.17%.

"They're hunting for Outliers," he continues, eyes scanning the path ahead. "This garden is both a warning and a trap. They're watching for reactions—for people who recognize what they're really seeing."

“That's why you grabbed my wrist. You anticipated my reaction."

A ghost of that infuriating half-smile crosses his face. "You're predictable in some ways, Noma."

The nickname dulls the ache sitting low in your stomach for reasons you cannot comprehend.

"Robin greeted me yesterday," you realize aloud, the pieces clicking into place. "At lunch. He looked at me strangely when I mentioned the temporal fluctuation in Sector 3."

Agent Min's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes darkens. 

“How long was the conversation?"

"17 minutes, 42 seconds."

"And did you discuss anything related to temporal anomalies after that?"

You review the memory, analyzing each exchange with renewed scrutiny. 

"Negative. The conversation shifted to cafeteria food quality."

He exhales—a controlled release of breath that betrays nothing of his thoughts. 

“That might have been enough."

Your stomach lurches.

Robin is frozen in bronze because of you. Because he noticed something. Because he might have reported it.

The data is insufficient for a definitive conclusion, but the probability exceeds 72.4%.

Your temporal variance increases to 1.23%.

"Steady," Agent Min murmurs, his voice carrying a cadence that seems designed to stabilize your readings. "Focus on your breathing. In for 4, out for 6."

You comply automatically, your body responding to the instruction before your mind can process why. 

"Is this what happens to all Outliers?" you ask once your variance stabilizes at 1.09%. "They become... monuments?"

"No," he says finally. "Most are simply erased and reprogrammed. This is... new."

"A tactical adjustment," you surmise. "Enhanced psychological warfare."

"Yes." 

"Why now?"

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening to that dangerous shade that makes your pulse accelerate by 7.2 beats per minute. 

"Because they're getting desperate."

"Why would CHRONOS be desperate? They control reality itself."

His eyes meet yours, something unreadable flashing in their depths. 

“That's what I'd like to know," he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes your skin prickle.

The discrepancy registers immediately. Agent Min doesn't ask questions—he provides answers, often cryptic and insufficient, but answers nonetheless. This response pattern deviates by approximately 87% from established behavioral norms.

Before you can analyze further, your body betrays you.

It starts as a contraction in your esophagus—sudden, violent, measuring approximately 74% stronger than standard swallowing reflex. Your salivary glands activate at 243% above baseline, flooding your mouth with excess moisture. Your stomach muscles clench in rhythmic waves, each contraction more intense than the last.

The analytical part of your mind calculates: gastric acid rising at 7.2 centimeters per second, diaphragm contracting at 3.7 times normal pressure, throat constricting at 82% capacity.

The rest of you simply feels.

Robin's face. Frozen in bronze that isn't bronze.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps a warning: Temporal variance: 2.43%.

A dangerous spike.

Your body heaves, doubling you over with a force that defies voluntary control. The acid burns at exactly 4.7 on the pH scale, searing the back of your throat as you fight to contain it. Your vision narrows to a field of approximately 47 degrees, peripheral awareness fading as your sensory systems redirect all processing power to the immediate crisis.

You register Agent Min's hand on your back—exactly T4 vertebra, pressure precisely calibrated at 2.3 kilograms, generating heat at 38.2°C despite the glove barrier.

"CHRONOS agents," he says, voice suddenly sharp with urgency. "Two o'clock, range 43 meters. Moving this way."

Your body doesn't care about CHRONOS agents. Your body only knows that Robin is frozen in timeless agony while families take selfies beneath his outstretched arms.

Another contraction—87% stronger than the previous one. Your analytical mind attempts to categorize the physiological response but finds no suitable parameters. 

This isn't logical. This isn't efficient. This isn't you.

Agent Min's hand moves from your spine to your wrist in one fluid motion. His fingers lock around the pulse point where your glove meets your sleeve, grip tensing to exactly 3.6 kilograms of pressure.

"Move. Now."

Your body moves before your mind processes the instruction, legs automatically adjusting to match his sudden directional shift. You register environmental changes with fragmented precision: ambient temperature decreasing by 1.7°C, crowd density increasing by 23%, noise levels rising to 72 decibels.

Agent Min guides you, his body angled at exactly 37 degrees relative to yours—shielding you from direct line of sight with the approaching agents while maintaining casual appearance.

"Temporal signature spiking," he mutters, grip tightening by another 0.4 kilograms. "They'll detect it if we don't stabilize you."

Your watch confirms his assessment: Temporal variance: 3.17%.

Critical threshold approaching.

The nausea intensifies, each wave synchronized perfectly with the beeping of your watch. Their correlation approaches 97.3%—statistically significant by any measure.

"Coffee shop," Agent Min decides, adjusting your trajectory by 28 degrees. "Northeast corner. Dampening field in the walls."

Your cognitive processes struggle to keep pace with the sensory overload. The street blurs around you—not from speed but from some perceptual distortion your analytical mind cannot quantify.

You glimpse your reflection in a storefront window as you pass—your face pale by approximately 37% compared to baseline, pupils dilated to 7.2 millimeters, micro-expressions cycling at 3.4 times normal rate.

You barely recognize yourself.

Another contraction seizes your stomach, more violent than before. Agent Min's arm shifts, sliding around your waist with a familiarity that feels habitual despite being entirely new. 

"Almost there," he says, voice dropping to that calibrated cadence that seems designed to stabilize your readings. "In for 4, out for 6. Match me."

Your body complies automatically, respiratory system syncing to his pattern without conscious direction. 

CHRONOS agents appear in your peripheral vision—three of them, moving with the unnatural precision that marks them as Timekeepers. Their trajectory will intersect with yours in approximately 12.3 seconds at current velocity.

"They're tracking your signature," Agent Min confirms, pace increasing by 0.3 meters per second. "Coffee shop.”

The coffee shop materializes ahead—a nondescript building with that averageness that makes it practically invisible to casual observation. Its design incorporates exactly zero distinguishing architectural features, rendering it 87% forgettable to the human brain.

Perfect camouflage.

Agent Min guides you through the door body positioned at precisely the optimal angle to shield yours from external observation. The bell chimes at exactly 56 hertz—a frequency your analytical mind flags as mathematically significant though you cannot immediately determine why.

The door closes behind you with a soft click that somehow sounds final.

Agent Min's arm remains around your waist—a point of contact your body accepts with suspicious automaticity.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps one last time before falling silent: Temporal variance: 1.78%.

Decreasing. Stabilizing.

The nausea recedes by approximately 42%, leaving behind a hollow sensation you cannot properly categorize.

Agent Min's eyes meet yours, and he looks… concerned?

"Breathe," he instructs.

You comply, your body responding to his command without conscious direction.

In for 4.

Out for 6.

In for 4.

Out for 6.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 100 notes.

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[endless-ineffabilities]

For His Eyes Only (a Chemical Override minishot)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: credit goes to this genius anon! This one is set right before part 7, when they've just started their fwb arrangement. Again, no taglist for minishots. I trust that this will find you when it finds you <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Fabien hoped to comfort Ewan over his recent heartbreak with the reader, but soon discovers that things between them have taken an unexpected turn.

Fabien and Ewan slid into a booth at their usual pub, the ambient noise of clinking glasses and laughter surrounding them. The two lads were incidentally in the same part of town for respective meetings, and thought to meet afterward.

Fabien couldn't help but eye his friend with a mix of concern and curiosity. The last time they’d met, Ewan had been putting on a front, dismissive about his past involvement with you. But Fabien saw right through him.

“So, how’s it going, mate?” Fabien asked, trying to sound casual but clearly probing. “How’s it really going? I’ve been meaning to have a proper one-with-one with you, you know?"

Ewan, who had been looking unusually cheerful, took a long swig of his beer. “Yeah, I’m good. Really fucking good, actually.” The statement was loaded, and while it wasn't exactly insincere, Fabien could sense something lingering underneath.

Ewan’s upbeat demeanor felt too polished, too forced. Fabien asked, “Did you find some magical cure for heartbreak?”

Ewan’s lips curled into a mysterious smile. As he leaned forward to grab some peanuts from the table, he tilted his head slightly, revealing a conspicuous hickey on his neck. Fabien’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Well, well,” Fabien said, trying to suppress a grin. “Looks like someone’s been busy.”

Ewan caught on, freezing in place as if a deer in headlights. But he quickly rolled with it, his smirk widening, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and defiance. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Fabien leaned back, feigning shock. “So, did you find a new lady to help you get over things, or is this just a new accessory? Anyone I know?”

Ewan replied, “It’s not what you think. Things are a bit… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Fabien echoed, his curiosity piqued. “Like, how many people are we talking about?”

Ewan shrugged nonchalantly, but his smile betrayed a hint of pride. Or was that bitterness? “Let’s just say my lips are sealed.”

Fabien laughed, shaking his head. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging. I’m dying to know what’s really going on.”

Ewan just raised his glass. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”

As they clinked glasses, Fabien couldn’t help but marvel at how Ewan had managed to move on so quickly and intriguingly. Last time they met, in the pub with the other lads, Ewan could not conceal each flicker of emotion on his face when Fabien told him about meeting you. That glimmer of hope when Fabien hinted that you and Jacob didn’t seem like anything more than friends.

Whatever was happening in Ewan’s life, it was clear he wasn’t about to reveal all the juicy details just yet.

Ewan offered to buy another round, gesturing to the bartender while pulling out his wallet.

Fabien glanced down, his eyes catching on a familiar photo peeking out - a sweet, old picture of a younger Ewan with his nan. It made Fabien smile softly, but as Ewan fished around for his card, the photo flap flipped open a bit too far, revealing something else entirely.

Fabien blinked, doing a double-take as the new image came into focus. It was you. And not just any picture of you - oh no, this one was definitely… memorable. You were seated sideways to the lens, twisting provocatively to meet the camera’s gaze, your arms draped alluringly over your bare chest. A duvet, blessedly, thank the gods, covered your lower half, but the whole scene was just shy of being a full-on scandal.

Fabien’s mind raced between wanting to laugh and praying for divine intervention to erase what he’d just seen. “Uh, Ewan...” Fabien swallowed nervously, trying to find the right words to address the situation without making it even more awkward.

Ewan, still busy with his card, finally glanced up, noticing Fabien’s expression. “What?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion before following Fabien’s gaze to the open wallet. The moment he realized what was on display, his eyes widened, and he snapped the wallet shut with an embarrassed exhale.

“Fuck's sake,” Ewan cursed, trying to play it off, though the pink tinge in his cheeks betrayed him. “Yeah, that’s, uh… a private moment.”

Fabien stifled a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Private? No kidding, mate. But aren't you holding on to the past?”

Ewan shot back with a protective edge to his voice. “Look, this is between me and…” He trailed off, giving Fabien a meaningful look. “And it’s not for public viewing.”

Fabien held up his hands in mock surrender, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Hey, your secret’s safe with me. But you might want to keep that flap under control, or you’ll give someone else a heart attack.”

Ewan rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forget you saw anything. That view is for my eyes only.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m trying,” Fabien replied with a chuckle. Ewan’s reaction just about gave away the lone culprit for the fresh lovebite on his neck.

As they continued their conversation, Fabien couldn’t help but think that he was right all along - whatever was going on between Ewan and you, it was clearly more cherished than he’d realized.

“You better erase all trace of that picture from your brain,” Ewan smirked at some point later, humorously warning.

Fabien incredulously responded, “Mate, I have a girlfriend! Damn, I worry about the poor sod who will ever try to properly steal her from you.”

“So do I.”

Good ol' blast from the recent past! See you for part 9 💙

What did you think of Ewan's precious little picture? If you have more minishot ideas, let me know below!

[foxaftershocks]

Oh my gosh I just read your most recent Lars Pinfield oneshot and I am in LOVE with your writing. Is it possible for you to do one where reader is with him & Lucky during the power outage scene, but like not *in* the main area they are at, more over by the Possessor's room. Hopefully you kinda get what I'm saying lol

I think I got what you were saying. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it even if I didn't.

Watching the possessor try and get Lars’ attention shouldn’t have made you feel a burst of warmth in your chest and yet there you were, pressing your lips together to suppress a smile.

“Can’t play right now,” Lars called as the chair tapped against the window.

You were sitting on the floor in front of the enclosure, knees bent towards your chest as you enjoyed the calm of being in the lab at night. During the day it could be so frantic, all kinds of noises and motions going on as the other researchers worked. At night like this, it was quiet, easy to just exist in your own body as you did what you loved. Especially given it was only people you happened to love still there too.

Or rather, person.

“I know you see me working,” he called over as the possessor continued to try and get his attention.

You stifled a laugh, the chair drooping down in sadness. It was like having a puppy in the lab and Lars had clearly been designated its favourite person.

“If you’re good later on you’ll get a tennis ball,” he said.

The chair perked up, the screech of the metal loud in your ears. You tapped on the glass, bringing its attention back to you. You smiled in, playing with it to give Lars and Lucky the chance to finish up their work in peace. The sound of their work was a familiar backdrop as you let your attention slip away from them.

That was until the possessor slammed the chair against the glass over and over again and the power went out. You were slow to climb to your feet, uncertainty filling your body.

“Uh… Lars?” you called out.

“Yeah, I know,” he called back, “just give it a minute.”

“I’m not sure…”

With one hand splayed on the cool glass of the possessor’s cage, you hauled yourself upright, leaning on it to keep yourself steady. You didn’t like it, the ambient noise of the lab making chills crawl over your skin. You held your breath, on tenterhooks, waiting for something to happen. The tension in the air was ratcheting up the longer it took for the generators to power back on, each second stretching out for an infinite amount of time.

“Lars, why haven’t the ghosts escaped yet?” Lucky asked, slow to make her way towards you.

It was like they’d been waiting for the question to be asked. The possessor slammed its chair against the glass to the right of your hand, cracking it outwards. You snatched your hand back as Lucky screamed, breath catching.

Stumbling back, you felt a cold chill going down the back of your neck. You were slow to turn into the waiting gaze of Bonesy, the skeletal face staring right back at you. Another crack from the glass behind you was loud in the otherwise silent area.

The frantic clicking from Lars on the computer filtered through and you watched as the lights flickered back on. Bonesy was pulled back through the glass as the proton fields turned on, missing you by a hair’s breadth. You slumped forward, relief coursing through you, making you light headed. Sinking to the floor, you did your best to take some deep breaths, forehead pressing to the tops of your bent knees.

“Okay we need to shut that thing up,” you heard Lars faintly say from back in the main lab.

Only then you heard his scream. Scrabbling to your feet, you rushed over, panic taking over your brain. Any rational thoughts were gone, taken over by your need to make sure he was okay.

He was bent over in front of the ionic separator, the brass sphere on the ground in front of him. His groans of pain were going through you, striking you like lightning. Lucky was standing close by, weight shifting from foot to foot, as if unsure what to do.

You grasped his shoulder, feeling him there under your hands, real and still warm. His breathing was coming fast and he was cradling his hand to his chest.

“Lars,” you said, trying to get his attention.

His blue eyes dragged up to yours, the pain contorting his face. You clutched at him, wanting to bring him closer.

“Don’t,” he shouted as you took a step towards him.

“What?” you said, freezing.

“Don’t touch it,” he gasped out, eyes darting down to the sphere at your feet, only an inch from your bare skin. You were careful as you shifted your feet away from it, trusting him completely. He’d never steered you wrong before.

“Lars,” you breathed out.

He was doubling up again, another groan coming from parted lips. With your hands still on his shoulders, you manoeuvred him around the sphere, sitting so innocently on the floor. He followed you, trusting you just as much as you trusted him.

“Leave it there until Lars can tell us what happened,” you instructed Lucky as you took Lars towards the medical centre.

Of course the nurse was long since gone, the bay dark. You flicked the lights on, helping him onto one of the beds. He was still curled up.

“Honey, I need you to tell me what happened,” you said, keeping your voice gentle, trying to coax him out.

“Cold,” he managed to gasp out, “I touched the sphere after it failed to extract the ghost inside and it was cold. Freezing. Fuck, it hurts.”

“I know it does, sweetheart,” you said, “can I look at it?”

He was slow to uncurl, offering his hand towards you. The skin was an unnaturally pale colour, the cold burn spreading over his palm, along his finger, making you wince just from looking at it. Your hands hovered over it, not sure what to do, where to touch, if you even should.

“We should warm it up, right? Oh god, I’m not a doctor,” you muttered to yourself.

“Warm water,” he said, “I need to soak it in warm water.”

“On it.”

He watched you as you filled a basin with warm water, a thermometer sitting in it as you brought it to the right temperature. Offering it to him, he eased his hand into the water. The wince he gave and the shaky breath suggested it wasn’t more comfortable.

“Are you going to be okay?” you asked, holding the bowl steady for him.

“I think,” he hissed, “I’ll survive.”

He looked up at you, standing close enough for his knees to brush you. Looking down at him, you felt your breath catch. It wasn’t your fault. He was so handsome, even when he was in pain. Not that you should be thinking about how gorgeous he was as you were trying to nurse him back to health.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softening.

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t even get hurt. I’m more worried about you,” you said.

“But you were surrounded when we lost power,” he said.

His other hand hovered right over your hip, as if worried to touch you. Before he made contact, he took the bowl from your hands, putting it down on the bed beside him, keeping his hand submerged. You didn’t know what to do with your hands without hold it, fingers twisting together.

His touch rested on them, stilling your wringing hands. You looked back into his eyes, the touch of your skin against his making your heart flutter. The way he was looking at you was making your head spin.

“If anything had happened to you…”

You wanted to know what the end of that sentence was going to be.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

His fingers slotted between yours, holding your hand. Pulling you forward a step, he tugged you between his legs, thumb brushing along the length of your index finger. Your breath caught.

“We could die,” he said.

“We’re not going to die.” You weren’t even going to entertain the thought.

“But we could. And if we do I’m not dying without ever doing this.”

His hand disentangled from yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. Guiding you down, your eyes fluttered shut, waiting for him. His breath ghosted over your lips before they brushed together. You whimpered, pressing closer, fingers closing around his shoulder again.

The groan he let out made you draw back, worried he was in pain again. He didn’t give you the chance, pulling you back in, kissing you deeper. Clearly the pain wasn’t too bad if he could kiss you with such skill it had your knees turning to jelly.

“Hey guys, is Lars okay?”

You drew back from him, cheeks heating up as you whipped your head towards the door. He chuckled, falling forward, forehead pressing to your stomach. Your fingers found their way into his hair, winding around his curls.

“I’m fine,” he called back before Lucky stepped in.

“Are you?” you asked.

You gently lifted the hand from the bowl of cooling water. The skin still looked wrong, too white, like a layer of wax over his palm.

“We should probably go to the emergency room,” you said, “I don’t think we’re equiped to fix this.”

“Can you drive?” he asked.

“Of course.”

You left Lucky with strict instructions to not touch the sphere and to keep an eye on the ghosts. After the night you’d had, she needed to make sure nothing more happened while you took care of Lars.

And yet if this was a portent of things to come, it was only going to get worse.

[ivanttakethis]

Tov’s Log - Entry 39

————————————————————

The days following Tov’s release from the hospital had gone smoothly.

Wren’s interview announcing that they were twins made waves in the media.

The press loved her and Dian’s debut as a couple.

And she had interviews and photo shoots lined up for the next few weeks.

But Tov knew better than to get comfortable.

She was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It dropped exactly a week later with a knock at the front door.

Cassio left the warm kettle for Tov to pour tea into each of their mugs and went to greet the unexpected visitor.

“Ah, Agent Irin.” She overhead them say from the foyer. “How can I help you?”

The hairs on the back of Tov’s neck stood on end.

What does the AREPH want now?

Is it about Lark?

Did they find out who killed him?

“I’m here to speak with you and Tov about that has come up.” Irin said.

A pause.

Then.

“Of course.” Cassio raised their voice, “Tov? Could you come to the door please?”

Tov took a deep breath, set the kettle down, and made her way to the foyer.

She came to stand slightly behind Cassio in the doorway. “Hello Agent Irin.”

The agent nodded once in greeting.

He wasn’t wearing his dark glasses like he had during her interrogation with Agent Pol.

Speaking of…

“Where’s your partner?” Tov asked.

Irin grimaced. “Former partner.” He said. “She’s been placed on desk duty pending disciplinary action for multiple violations.”

“So she was harassing more people than just me.” Cassio hummed, pleased.

Tov frowned up at her guardian.

When did Agent Pol harass them?

Why didn’t they tell me?

“Unfortunately, yes. But I’m not here about that. This is regarding Tov’s recent medical diagnosis.”

They glanced at Tov, then back at Agent Irin, their expression giving nothing away. “Go on.”

“Alien Stage production has asked the AREPH carry out independent testing of Tov’s heart.” He said.

Cassio stiffened, narrowing their eyes, “For what purpose?”

“To verify that she is unable to compete in a possible rematch against Cirrus.”

The words hit Tov like a slap across the face.

A rematch?!

Agent Irin’s answer startled a laugh out of Cassio, “You can’t be serious.”

“Unfortunately I am.” Irin said. “It’s been requested that we take Tov in for testing immediately.”

“She hasn’t even eaten yet!”

“It’s better that she hasn’t. There’s no need to hold her for a fasting period prior to the test administration. Tov will return sooner.”

“Do I have a choice?” Tov asked, despite already knowing the answer.

The agent shook his head. At least he looked apologetic. “I’m afraid not.”

Of course not.

She and Cassio exchanged another glance. Despite her guardian’s placid expression, Tov could see the concern pinched between their brows.

They didn’t want to let her go.

But if either of them resisted, things would only get worse.

Cassio sighed reluctantly, “Very well, you may take her for testing.”

They stepped to the side and guided Tov forward, resting their hands on her shoulders.

“However,” Cassio’s tone turned icy. “If you don’t return Tov to me in the exact condition she leaves in, I will spend the rest of my life hunting you down.” They said, squeezing her shoulders. “And Aurusians live quite a long time.”

Tov suppressed a shiver.

She couldn’t recall a time where Cassio had ever sounded like that before.

Agent Irin’s face twitched ever so slightly. If Tov had blinked she would’ve missed it. “Understood.”

———

The rear windows of Agent Irin’s car were blacked out. As was the partition that separated the front and back seats.

Tov couldn’t see anything through the thick tint.

Ambient noise from outside the vehicle was nonexistent, too.

Not even the hum of the motor made it through whatever soundproofing there was in the cabin.

Her first conversation with Elias came to mind.

“If guards lack transparency, then the AREPH is completely opaque by comparison.” He’d said.

Opaque in every sense of the word it seemed.

Without any visual anchor, it was hard to tell how much time had passed or where exactly they were going.

Based on the lack of stopping and starting, and the gentle turns the car made around curves, Tov could only gather that they were somewhere far outside of the city.

Elias did say the facility location was classified…

After some time, Tov felt the car come to a slow stop.

The doors unlocked and Agent Irin opened the door to her right, “Follow me.”

They were parked in large, windowless structure made out of thick concrete slabs. It was filled with rows and rows of vehicles identical to the one Agent Irin drove.

Bright floodlights shined down from the high ceiling, harsh and unforgiving.

It reminded her of the underground tunnels of the Alien Stage complex.

Maybe they were underground.

There was no way to tell.

Tov trailed behind Agent Irin as he navigated the rows of cars toward a freight elevator.

There was a call box next to the elevator and a security camera positioned above the door.

Agent Irin pressed and held the button on the call box, “This is Agent Irin, Badge 1149, escorting Subject-020547.”

The light on the security camera changed from flashing yellow to red.

It stared down at Tov from its perch, unblinking.

She stared back.

The call box speaker crackled and a disembodied voice answered, “Copy, Agent Irin. Why is the pet-human detainee not restrained?”

Detainee?

They keep pet-human prisoners here?

How many? What did they do?

Tov cut her eyes over at the agent who kept his gaze straight ahead.

“She’s here for medical testing, not as a detainee.” He said. “The research team is expecting her today.”

“Hold for clearance.”

A few moments passed in silence.

Then a few more.

Tov decided to ask Agent Irin the question that had been on her mind since he arrived at Cassio’s house.

“Did you find out who poisoned Lark?”

The agent sighed.

Not a good sign.

“The agency’s investigation into Subject-012864’s death has been placed on hold indefinitely.” He said.

Probably because the perpetrator is dead by now. She thought.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise.

Even still… she had foolishly hoped for something.

“I see.”

The speaker crackled again, “All clear. Proceed to the medical ward.”

The elevator shaft rumbled to life; metal on metal groaning as the mechanisms lurched into motion.

A dull roar echoed off the concrete walls as the car descended.

The heavy door opened wide, like the gaping maw of a wagyein ready to devour Tov whole.

The belly of the beast awaited.

There was no turning back now.

———

Before entering the research wing of the facility, Tov was forced to change out of her clothes and into a bodysuit provided through a slot in the wall of a small changing room.

The suit was white, long sleeved, and made out of a stretchy, mesh fabric.

Upon closer inspection, the material looked to be comprised of small, hexagonal patches sewn together.

It fit snug against her form and covered her feet, almost like a second skin.

She’d never felt a fabric anything like it before.

I wonder if Cassio knows about this…

Her guardian was probably worried sick.

Their tea from this morning was long cold by now too.

Tov sighed and gathered her things in the mesh bag she’d been given.

Agent Irin was waiting right outside the door when she came out of the room.

“I’ll hold onto your personal belongings until the end of the session.” He said, plucking the bag out of her hands and continuing down the hall. “This way please.”

“Uh, alright,” Tov muttered, once again trailing behind him. “Is there a reason why I had to change clothes?”

Irin slowed his strides for her to catch up, “It’s integral to the test. The suit tracks your four major vitals: blood pressure, body temperature, respiratory rate, and — most importantly — heart rate. It will allow the team to remotely monitor your condition throughout the process.”

“Will they need blood work from me?” She asked.

“Not that I know of. The agency already has access to your digital record, so the team will pull any results they may need from your recent hospital stay.”

Tov’s shoulders tensed.

“Do you have access to all of the Alien Stage contestants’ digital records?”

“Only those that are relevant to us.”

No further elaboration.

Okay, how long have I been “relevant” to the AREPH?

Agent Irin stopped at another elevator, sleek and modern instead of industrial, and pressed the top button.

He stepped aside to allow her to enter first.

As the elevator lift ascended, Tov thought back to when the AREPH may have requested her digital record.

Could it have happened after the cafeteria incident with Daiki and Himei?

No.

Before that.

When Agent Pol and Agent Irin came to Alien Stage to interrogate her.

After Lark died.

Maybe it was even further back.

Solei’s escape.

That was Tov’s first interaction with the AREPH, courtesy of Agent Pol.

They may have had access to her record this whole time.

They could’ve been watching her this whole time.

Tov always expected as much.

Agent Pol didn’t seem to buy her story that she knew nothing about Solei’s escape from Anakt Garden.

Now she knew for sure.

She was on the agency’s radar from the very beginning.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open to the research department lobby.

Both the walls and the floor were concrete here too, but the floor was smooth and polished like tile.

The AREPH seal was etched in the center of the room.

Natural light poured in from somewhere up above them, through carved out shafts in the high ceiling.

Agent Irin led her down a series of concrete hallways lined with blacked out windows and heavy metal doors, so similar to each other it was hard to tell where one ended and another began.

All of the signage was in a segyein language Tov had seen before but was never taught how to read.

Likely intentional.

They came to a stop at the end of a wide hall.

Two doors stood side by side in front of them, each marked with a unique sign.

Agent Irin approached the door on the left and opened it. “This entrance is for subjects.” He said, stepping to the side.

A long, narrow corridor stretched out ahead to somewhere unseen; sterile and brightly lit, like a hospital.

One way glass lined the right wall, concealing the watchful gazes likely on the other side.

She looked over at the agent, curious, “Will be staying here then?”

“I’ll be in the observation room with the research team for the duration of the test.” Irin said, nodding toward the other door. “Once you’re inside, wait for further instructions over the intercom.”

Tov stepped over the threshold and Irin shut the door behind her.

The loud click of the lock looped in her mind with nothing else but the silence to fill it.

Wait.

Just wait.

A tone sounded nearby.

Then a voice.

“Subject-020547, can you hear me?”

“I can.” She answered.

“Good, then we can go ahead and get started. My name is Yakun, and I’ll be your anesthesiologist today.”

Anesthesiologist?

“You’ll be putting me under for the test?” Tov asked.

“We will! But not to worry, it’s only to keep your vitals at a steady rate. No invasive procedures involved.” Yakun said. “Please proceed to the testing chamber.”

She hesitated, only for a moment, before forging ahead.

The sooner she moved through the process, the sooner she could leave.

The white tile flooring changed to metal grating as Tov neared the open chamber door.

Inside was a large, empty tank with glass windows.

It reminded Tov of her Anakt Garden class’s field trip to the aquarium.

Hundreds of alien fish species swam in huge tanks like this, filled with liquid methane and colorful vegetation.

The memory of her classmates’ awed faces was bittersweet now.

Another door to the chamber slid open and two humanoid segyein dressed in hazmat suits filed in.

They set about their tasks in silence, not paying Tov any mind.

A third segyein entered a few moments later and approached her.

“Hold out one hand, please.” They said.

The mask they wore muffled and distorted their voice.

Tov extended her right hand and the segyein placed a pair of wireless earbuds in her palm.

“The earbuds my colleague has given you will prevent the submersion liquid from getting into your ear canals. Go ahead and put them in.” Yakun said over the speaker.

So they are going to fill this tank up with something. She thought as she followed the instructions.

They were a snug fit, blocking out most of the sound around her.

“They’ll also allow me to give you further instructions.” She heard Yakun say from the earbuds. “My colleague also has a tablet with a selection of music for you to listen to as we put you under. Your choice, of course.”

A tablet was extended to her with a list of different music genres and instruments.

Tov’s eyes caught on one instrument in particular.

Her heart stuttered.

Before she could hesitate or talk herself out of it, Tov made her decision.

“Harp music?” Yakun hummed. “What a lovely choice. Such a beautiful instrument.”

She didn’t respond, instead choosing to focus on the gentle swell of the music.

The piece sounded vaguely familiar.

Maybe Tallis had played it during a talent show one year?

Yakun’s voice scattered her thoughts, “Stand on the small dais in the center of the chamber with your hands clasped together in front of you.”

Tov did as she was told.

Her hands were cuffed with a device similar to a pet-human collar, as were her feet.

Both sets of cuffs were anchored to the metal grates on the floor by long cords.

One of the segyein tied her braids together and weighed them down with something heavy.

A mask was placed over her nose and mouth.

The windows in the tank were one-way glass, allowing Tov to see her reflection.

Despite how much Season 39 had changed her, she didn’t look much different.

The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced from her fitful attempts at sleeping.

She hadn’t put the silver clips back in her hair since they were taken out for Round 30.

Everything else was unchanged.

All of the damage was internal.

Emotional.

Psychological.

Invisible to the naked eye.

No one could tell anything was wrong when she was smiling for the cameras.

Once the segyein researchers left the chamber and sealed the doors shut, Yakun spoke again.

“Alright Tov, all of our preparations are complete. I’m going to administer the aerosolized sedative now.”

Tov relaxed her shoulders as best she could and nodded.

The sedative hissed as it entered her mask, filling her nose and mouth.

It smelled… like home?

Delicate. Slightly sweet and floral.

It smelled like the clematis flowers that grew in Anakt Garden.

Is Anakt Garden home?

Tov’s head started to feel light. Her eyelids grew heavy.

Fluid rushed into the chamber through vents near the floor. It was warm, like the touch of another human, with a blueish tint; more viscous than water.

“The submersion liquid is starting to fill the tank, but don’t panic. All I need you to do is take deep, steady breaths.” Yakun sounded further away than before.

She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, letting the sound of the harp lull her to sleep.

In...

Tov breathed in.

...and out.

Tov breathed out.

In...

Tov breathed in.

...and out.

Tov breathed out.

In...

Tov breathed in.

...and out.

Tov breathed out.

“That’s perfect, Tov. Keep going.”

Keep going…

Keep going…

Keep going…

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Tov? Are you listening?”

————————————————————

First Tov log of 2025 and I already have her behind enemy lines…

But I really wanted her to end up at AREPH headquarters somehow and this was the best way to do it.

I drew heavy inspiration for the style/architecture of the AREPH building from The Oldest House, the setting of Remedy Entertainment’s game Control (my beloved). Specifically the Research Sector (references here and here).

Also! This is Tov’s 39th log entry!! 🥳

“39… like from season…” - @apple8ees

Consider this the beginning of a new arc for Tov! We’re just getting started!!

Lark belongs to @kamersona.

Daiki belongs to @daiki1k.

Himei, Tallis, Yakun, and the AREPH belong to @lookatmysillies.

Solei belongs to @solei-eclipse.

Dian belongs to @imperfectnothing.

Cirrus belongs to @cirrusoftheclouds.

Tagging: @nottoonedin @alien-til-i-stage @chevalperd @apriciticreveries @neverforgetyou @verdantlights @billwasnot @starry-skiez @4listr @friedclownshrimp @awaggaa (hi everyone 👋)

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2025-05-26

You must believe that it will go on forever

Listening: Listened to the soundtrack from The People's Joker, which you can roughly find here

There are a lot of bangers in this one but I do think I have to put down Back of the Truck

You should definitely watch The People's Joker it is a truly incredible piece of art. It is literally the only piece of Batman media I have ever consumed start to finish.

Reading: A bunch of scattered articles on ocean plastic in an attempt to better understand some of the claims made in a book I read a while ago, still piecing those together.

Also a lot of electronics part specs because I'm trying to do another PCB project and I am in the hell that is finding parts that are cheap, in stock, and well documented. This is a fight you can win but it involves giving up the part of yourself that doesn't understand how Molex names their parts.

Watching: Watched Les Barbouzes/The Great Spy Chase, a French spy comedy film from the 60's where the conceit is "what if five different countries sent their spies to recover some valuable documents at the same time and they all had to play nice while trying to get one over on each other.

It's very funny! Genuinely some incredible comedy in this movie, but also, Le Racisme! Le Racisme is relatively limited and you should still probably watch this.

In addition to this, at bad movie night Rollergator, a movie by a director who has featured here before when he did Legend of the Rollerblade Seven which is the worst movie we've ever run at Bad Movie Night. Rollergator is about a girl who finds a tiny purple gator puppet who raps and also does one Le Racisme (American) when he does impressions as a bit.

The director of these movies (Donald G. Jackson) Made a like million dollars on one movie and then pioneered the concept he called "Zen Filmmaking" which is when you don't write a script and just wander around easily accessible sets freestyling it. The movies he produces are both unwatchably bad and have negative production value, with untraceable plots, inaudible audio, and pointless dialogue. I cannot really recommend that you watch this one.

Playing: A few more levels of Skin Deep, in part because my partner wanted to see it. Playing or talking video games around them (and a few of my other friends) is funny because it makes me feel like the Video Game Ulysses Ogre. I'm all "Aaaah ogre so stupid ogre can only just make use of smoke grenades, ogre not even begin to correctly employ jiggle peeking" meanwhile they're like "yeah I get frustrated at Arkham Asylum on easy."

Also more Echo Point Nova which is rapidly becoming one of my favourite shooters. I feel like I'm not doing myself any favours refusing to use a controller here, aim assist would probably be great, but I am getting shockingly good at playing Clay Pigeon on the hoverboard guys with my shotgun.

Making: 3D printed speaker stands for my PC speakers, which need some work or maybe just some cleverer design to prevent them from leaning way forwards. Still working on it. Continuing to fiddle with various designs for my new desk setup.

Tools and Equipment: I finally bought some noise cancelling wireless earphones and they are kind of killer for the metro. I have previously worn earplugs on the metro but they are way more inconvenient. I have known how good ANC is for a long time but it really cannot be overstated how nice it is to be able to a) listen to music on the metro without blowing your eardrums out and b) just suppress ambient noise for a bit. Sometimes I've been throwing them in if I want to keep listening to a podcast while I boil the kettle or turn on the microwave.

These are the new CMF Buds 2 which were like USD 50-ish? I'm sure if you get a new Sony it's better and these definitely struggle with more variable, less monotonous noises, but they're great for the price.

[abarbaricyalp]

Hi! Not sure how it works, but for the Whumptober event: #15 for SamBucky?

Oh it is so embarrassing to be answering this so late. I have literally been working on it (off and on) since October. It never strayed from the top of my WIP pile. I just...gestures vaguely Thank you so much for sending in a prompt and I'm so sorry to have taken so long. I do love a good "Leave me alone, I'm fine" whump. I went with "Makeshift bandages" but I'm sure you can find "suppressed suffering" and "I'm fine" if you squint.

Putting Bandages Where Stitches Should Be

CW: Injury, violence, blood, etc

Read on AO3

Steve was right again. Sam hated it when Steve was right. It was making an indisputably bad day even worse.

"Don't go out today," Steve had said, all puppy-dogged eyes that morning. "I've got a bad feeling."

Him and his bad feelings. He called it a soldier's intuition and Sam called it a soldier's paranoia. But, dammit, he was usually right. That couldn’t be a byproduct of the serum, could it?

But it was a beautiful fall day and they needed groceries something fierce, so Sam had rolled his eyes and called him paranoid and headed out.

It had been fine for several hours, Sam wanted it noted. Just a normal day of errands. Hell, no one had even recognized him. He even tried a new coffee drink.

With a hysterical kind of laugh, Sam realized he hadn’t even made it to the grocery store yet. Probably a good thing since the car was now languishing in a parking lot somewhere and it was only going to get warmer as the day went on. What time was it, he wondered. Had Steve realized something was wrong yet? That paranoid intuition would be real handy right about then.

Sam leaned back against the dingy wall and tried not to think about how badly he was sweating against it. It was going to start mildewing. He still couldn’t figure out where these guys came from. The parking lot had been almost completely empty. There’d been no one else near him. One second, he was loading up a bag of new blankets into the back of the car, and the next someone was hitting him upside the head and dragging him away.

He knew they had to be trained at least a little. They were quiet and fierce. Nothing that Sam couldn’t normally hand, but there had been no fighting through the early wound to his head. Actually, it was still pulsing, each heartbeat a new throb of bruise-ache against his skull. The longer he sat here, the further the ache traveled, reaching for his temples, his ears, his eyes.

He closed his eyes, as if that would stave off anything at all, and listened to the ambient noise of whatever not-so-safe house he was being held in. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of his attackers since they’d thrown him into the small room. He assumed it was an apartment and this was some bedroom or office. It was clean, the carpet was almost soft. There were worse places, he thought. And with it being carpet, maybe they weren’t looking to make him bleed. That’d be nice.

He knew other people were around. He could hear them pacing around the other side of the door. His head hurt too much to concentrate on what they were saying. They were speaking German, which he didn’t speak, but it gave him a good feel that this was probably Hydra. It made the apartment even more confusing. What would Hydra want with Sam that involved just keeping him thrown in an empty office?

There was a cacophony outside then, snarling and the sounds of blows landing on bodies, bodies falling to the floor.

“Ich habe es dir gesagt!” he heard someone shout. “Er ist der Winter Soldier!”

Someone was shitting Sam. Instantly, all of the minor irritation of the day flooded over the actual concern of having been kidnapped by neo-Nazi assholes. If he’d said ‘this day can’t get worse’ this is the exact outcome that would have made it worse. He’d take bleeding over this.

There was more fighting and then the door was wrenched open and a very bloodied and bruised Winter Soldier was kicked into the room, landing hard on his face and wrist beside Sam.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Sam said, just to get it out there.

Barnes turned over onto his back, keeping his hurt wrist against his chest. He looked up at Sam, scowled through the blood on his face, managed to glare while both eyes were almost swelled shut. “I ain’t thrilled to see you neither, birdbrain,” he coughed. He turned back onto his side to spit out a glob of blood that landed on the knee of Sam’s jeans.

“Asshole,” Sam snapped and tried to clean it off, even though it was already a lost battle. “I take it you fought back,” Sam guessed.

“I take it you did not,” Bucky shot back and it felt more like an insult than an actual insult would have.

Sam scowled at him. It had been months since they’d seen each other. Sam couldn’t even say what city or even country it was that he’d caught up to Barnes in. It hadn’t been a long meeting. More or less just enough time for them to grapple and exchange a few threats before Barnes shook Sam’s tail again. At first, Sam took it as a personal failing that he kept losing Barnes. He was too ashamed to admit to Steve that he’d caught up with the reanimated best friend but let him slip away. Then, as time went on and Sam caught him more often, he placed all of the blame fully on Barnes. There were times, he knew, when Barnes let him catch up. These happened only often enough to keep Sam in the cat-and-mouse game. There were times, he also knew, when Barnes fully didn’t expect Sam to have found him. Two months ago was one of those times. Barnes had seemed healthy and adjusted. He had his own place and there was fresh bread on the table. Small miracles.

That did not explain why Barnes was in New York or anywhere near it in order to get the shit beat out of him by Hydra goons and dragged into whatever this was.

Barnes shoved himself up by the elbows and spit more blood out. So much for keeping the carpet clean. “So what the fuck did you do to land us here?”

“This is not an ‘us’ situation,” Sam objected with a snort. “What did you do to land you  here?”

“Fuck all,” Barnes answered. He leaned against the wall next to Sam, tilted his head back to avoid gushing more blood from his nose. Sam had seen him hurt before, but he’d never been around for the fall out like this. He was like some stray dog, sleeping off the worst of it and trying to lick clean all of the rest. “You told me it was an emergency.”

Sam looked away from a smear of blood on Bucky’s neck to frown at him directly. “I did not reach out to you. And what kind of emergency could possibly make you come all the way back to America?”

Bucky’s head lolled over to him. A muscle worked in his jaw and down his neck as those obnoxious eyes scanned over Sam’s face. “You said Steve was hurt. Bad.”

“I didn’t. He’s not. That’s all it would’ve taken to get you back here?” he asked, just a little offended that he’d been traipsing around the world and digging huge chunks into his sleep deficit when there was a magic code to bring Bucky back on his own. And all it would take was Steve landing himself in a hospital again.

Bucky half waved him off, turned his head away again. “Someone must’ve really wanted me here.”

“I cannot fathom why.”

They sat in stony silence for too long. Sam much preferred being alone, he decided. At least then silence was just silence and not this crackling energy between them. Barnes broke the silence by coughing wetly again and spitting out more blood and tissue.

“Christ alive,” Sam sighed. “What’s going on with you?” He reached out without any fanfare to hold Bucky’s face and examine the injuries there. There’d been no time for any of them to heal, not that Sam would’ve been able to tell through the blood. “Hold still,” he ordered and reached for the hidden knife in Bucky’s bootheel that he knew was there.

“How?” Bucky asked. Sam was surprised to only find curiosity in his voice and not anger.

“I’ve seen you take it out before. Just had to hope it wasn’t something Hydra taught you and knew to look for.”

“Nah, that one’s all Brooklyn,” he said with a tired sigh. “Well, kind of. I adapted it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. The old-timey Brooklyn posturing was the same whether it was Steve or Barnes, evidently. He cut the sleeve off of his shirt and used it to begin cleaning away some of the blood on Bucky’s face. It was slow going without water, but Barnes was remarkably quiet during the entire thing. He let Sam work without fussing. His eyes remained focused and sharp, bright even in the dim room. He was more enjoyable when his eyes looked like this, instead of the dead shark stare he got in the middle of a fight.

Not that Sam was going to admit Barnes was ever enjoyable to be around.

“What do you think this is about?” Sam asked to distract Bucky from the fact that he was about to set his nose back.

“Clearly they wanted the both of us–Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky shouted and shoved Sam hard enough that Sam actually rocked back and lost his balance, sprawled across the floor. Sam subtly rolled out his shoulder–it was definitely going to bruise–before he sat up again and glared.

“I didn’t think you wanted the rugged crooked nose look,” he defended without any real belief in the words. He was actually kind of worried about what the serum would do to a persistently crooked nose.

Bucky rubbed from the bridge of his nose into the soft, squishy bruises around his eyes. Already, impossibly, the color was draining from the outer edges of the bruises. Sam hated him for it.

“Clearly they wanted both of us,” Sam agreed and rolled his shoulder again. “But…they don’t seem keen on cutting off fingers.”

“Not yet,” Bucky grunted.

“They gotta know we won’t talk. You won’t talk. Don’t you think it’s kind of playing with fire to bring you here? I mean, you’re not even drugged.”

As if his words were a reminder, Bucky eyed the door. Sam knew he could take it out of the wall if he wanted too. He also knew that whoever these assholes were, they had enough manpower to bring Bucky in bloodied and rough. He figured Bucky was doing similar calculations in his mind.

“Why us?” Sam prompted again.

“Steve,” Bucky grunted. He leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest. “They wouldn’t bother to hunt me down, wouldn’t take that risk, for anything else. They probably think if they have both of us, they have twice as much leverage.”

“Maybe they couldn’t decide which one he was more likely to come for,” Sam suggested, only a little sarcastically.

“That man would rend the Earth apart for you,” Bucky said as simply as he would talk about the weather.

Sam tried not to blow over again. Bucky believed that. He wasn’t just saying it to be a shit. “Have you been watching us?” he asked, instead of asking for a thesis on why Bucky thought that so assuredly.

Bucky cut him a look. It was dampened by the bruises. “I had to keep making sure neither of you had gotten yourselves killed yet.”

“Yeah, you’re a real shining example of how to do it right. Show back up on American soil for two minutes and instantly get captured,” Sam snarked back. He needed to put some distance between his current situation and the fact that Barnes thought Steve would ‘rend the Earth apart’ for him. “Come here and let me look at that wrist.”

“Is this how you were with the pararescue?”

“Good at my job? Yes.”

“So damn pushy,” Barnes corrected. But he shifted how he was sitting so they were almost knee to knee and then held out his arm. “It’ll heal on its own,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

“Or I can just wrap it and you don’t have to worry about rebreaking it later. Do you know how many carpal bones there are? You keep fucking them up, or the tendons attached to them, and you’re gonna be in a world of hurt for longer than you need to be.”

“There are eight,” Barnes said, just to be difficult. “Should I name them all for you too?”

Sam took half a second to glare at him before returning his attention to Bucky’s wrist. Barnes was long fingered, which was something Sam knew logically. He’d seen him handle weaponry. Seen him fight. Still, it was different when those fingers were laid out across his forearm, a little swollen, a little curled in, but still so damn pretty. Sam had never met someone with pretty hands before. He’d expected Bucky’s hands to be gnarled and scarred from a lifetime of fighting and training and abuse, but they just weren’t. The serum helped, he assumed. He wondered what they had looked like on the man from all of Steve’s stories. Had they looked like this, even working on the docks all day and boxing his way through the nights?

Everyone Sam knew who’d ever worked around boats had hands that were rope-burned and muscled and suntanned. He’d half expected Bucky’s to be similar. Instead, his hands were…not soft, exactly. But clean and smooth.

He pushed his thumbs into Bucky’s wrist, dragging them down his metacarpals. Barnes hissed in a breath and his eyes darted away from Sam’s ministrations. Sam returned his thumbs to Bucky’s wrist and then pushed down into his ulna and radius. He didn’t react as strongly to that, so Sam focused on the carpals that were up high in his wrist. (Down low? He could never remember how to orient the body)

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, probing for the misaligned bone but coming up empty.

“Everywhere,” Barnes ground out. “It fucking hurts everywhere.” But he didn’t yank his hand away, so Sam kept at it. Finally, finally, something snapped as Sam pushed his thumbs down into Bucky’s wrist for an umpteenth time. Bucky swore colorfully and snatched his hand back at that, rubbing his own fingers over his wrist while new curses came out.

“Let me wrap it a little,” Sam offered, holding his hand out again.

Bucky looked at him like he bit. Sam had read all the notes about the Winter Soldier. How medical treatment was administered. When the Soldier cooperated and when he didn’t. The Soldier could handle inordinate amounts of pain. Bucky Barnes, it seemed, did not feel like keeping the habit alive.

“It’ll be fine without a sling,” he insisted. “It already feels better.” And then, from between his teeth, he added, “Thank you.”

He was still bloodied, hair matted all to hell. He looked like some kind of wild man. Actually, he kind of looked how Sam expected to find him at the beginning of the Great Barnes Search and Rescue Mission. He came forward again, beginning to wipe at Bucky’s face one more time.

“You’re disgusting to look at,” he defended when Bucky tacked a lazy glare on him.

“Just admit you wanna touch my face, Wilson,” Bucky shot back.

Sam accidentally reopened a wound, so he tore off a piece from his demolished sleeve and stuck it to the gash like toilet paper on a shaving knick. 

“You’re so dumb,” Bucky sighed as his eyes closed. Then he pitched right into Sam, almost completely boneless.

“Barnes?” Sam barked as he fought to get his hands under Bucky’s body enough to lift him again. “Do not fucking pass out,” he ordered, possibly irrelevantly. “Barnes,” he snapped again, and gently smacked the better, less bruised side of his face. “You didn’t say you were concussed. You didn’t say you had more injuries.” He yanked up Bucky’s shirt, prodding his belly and ribs for any signs of internal bleeding, but came up short. Just a bunch of outside bruises, maybe a crack in his ribs. He wrenched open Bucky’s mouth to check for signs he’d been coughing blood, but didn’t find any of that either. He was just about to shove his fingers down Bucky’s throat to look for a blood clot when his eyes fluttered open again.

He took a few seconds to recognize his surroundings–distressingly still and relaxed about waking up in a room he didn’t know–and then he reached up for Sam’s wrist and pulled his hand away. “Why were your fingers in my mouth?”

Sam rolled his eyes while he waited for his heart to stop thundering in his chest. Just his luck. Find the prodigal best friend and watch him die before Sam could drop him at Steve’s feet. “You basically begged for me to,” he scoffed. “Sam, please, you’ve just got such good fingers. I need them in my mouth.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, then grimaced. So it probably was some kind of concussion. At least Sam didn’t have to worry about blood clots. “What’s happened? How long was I out?”

“Nothing. A few seconds,” Sam answered. “Don’t do that again.”

Bucky saluted from halfway up his chest. “Whatever, man. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t care what you are. Keep your eyes open.”

The door opened then and a tall man, dressed like a movie villain with tall dark boots and a long dark coat, walked into the room. He had Sam’s phone in his hand and it was trilling with a waiting phone call.

“You don’t keep a passcode on your phone?” Bucky asked drily.

“Of course I fucking do,” Sam snapped back.

“Gentlemen, please,” the man said with a stifled German accent.

Steve picked up just before it would’ve gone to voicemail. “Sam, hey, I was about to send out a rescue party.”

Bucky looked at Sam pointedly, which Sam ignored. It was just a joke. He hadn’t been gone that long. Probably.

“Mr. Rogers,” the man in the coat greeted. Sam could practically feel Steve go still on the other side of the call. “I seem to have acquired not only your friend’s cell phone, but him as a whole person. And he came along with another friend.”

He snapped a photo of Sam and Bucky. Bucky barely flinched at the flash, but a few seconds later, he was still blinking and shaking his head, like the light was still in his eyes. The bad guy du jour tapped around on Sam’s phone and Sam heard it buzz in on Steve’s end.

Steve was quiet, contemplative for a few seconds. Then he said, “You have Sam and Bucky?”

“Yeeesss,” the man agreed with a lilting exaggeration. “I didn’t know they came as a pair.”

“They don’t, usually. But now that you do have both, good luck.”

And then the little shit hung up the phone. Even the asshole German guy stared at the screen in disbelief. Another man appeared in the hallway. He cast a nervous glance towards Bucky, whose eyes were shut again, before redirecting his attention to his boss.

“What’d he say?” the man asked. He was fully American. Jersey, maybe.

“Bad connection,” the other man ground out before stalking down the hallway. The second man hurried to keep up. The door remained open.

Sam nudged Bucky’s ribs. “Stop it,” Bucky grumbled without opening his eyes.

“If you pass out again, I’m not waking you up this time,” Sam lied. “What did Steve mean?”

“I think he meant we can handle ourselves. I just need to…” He grimaced. “I just need to rest my eyes for a little while. Then I’ll be good to go.”

“The door is open now,” Sam pointed out under his breath. “Come on, you don’t have some kind of super hearing where you can fight with your eyes closed?”

Bucky raised one eyebrow in consideration. It stressed a gash across his brow. “I can fight in the dark,” he agreed.

“I’ll keep anyone from hitting you in the face again,” Sam promised. “But we have to go now.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes open and leveled a calculating glare on Sam before he nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, which felt like a miracle in and of itself. He pushed himself to his feet and then leaned back against the wall as he pressed the heels of his hands over his browbones.

Sam stood as well and put a hand to Bucky’s elbow. In all their brief encounters, they didn’t get much time to touch each other, unless they were brawling over nothing but ego. Bucky was actually…kind of soft beneath Sam’s fingers. And warm. He was certainly not the sharp edged, battle ready soldier Sam kept finding. He felt real and alive. And he was still trying to blink his eyes open.

Sam curled his fingers tighter around Bucky’s elbow and pulled him out into the hallway. He scanned the unit for any sunlight that he could use to orient himself. Without speaking, Bucky pulled him to the stairs. They made it most of the way down before the wall of the stairs gave way to an open railing and they were spotted by more assholes in black.

“Y’all coordinate these outfits beforehand or y’all keep changes of clothes here?” Sam asked before he threw Bucky into the crowd of assholes.

He tried to keep his promise about keeping punches away from Bucky’s face. They landed damn near everywhere else. Sam had underestimated how many people there were–numbers growing from three to five to nine until he lost count. Bucky was holding his own, putting men down two-to-one to Sam, climbing to three-to-one. Sam tried to catch glimpses of the rest of the house. There was a wall of windows, covered in curtains and pasted over with film or paper. The rest of the room looked like a dining room or something. Behind them was nothing but more room and dark walls.

“Find the front door,” Bucky snapped when Sam’s eyes went to the window again. He smashed someone’s head down on the banister with enough force to crack either bone or wood. “I’m not jumping through glass.”

Sam rolled his eyes and then ducked away from a Goddamn hammer. He wrestled it away from the man wielding it, then threw it at the window to shatter it open. “There you go. No need to jump,” he said breathlessly. He turned just in time to catch someone around the waist and throw them into the wall before they could get the drop on Bucky, who was, if Sam had to guess, wrenching someone’s arm out of socket. 

Bucky got a gun from somewhere and made fast work of everyone else in the room, but not before the guy who Sam had thrown into the wall smashed Sam’s head into it in retaliation. On the opposite side from the open wound Sam was already contending with, of course. Why shouldn’t the bruises match?

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky said, cutting through the ringing, violent silence that had fallen over the house. He wiped away the blood that was pouring over his own eye, completely oblivious to the irony. “Jesus, you’re bleeding a lot. What happened?”

Sam stared at him a little dumbfounded. “Are you serious right now?”

Bucky tsked away his bitching, yanking Sam over to examine his forehead like a collector looking at diamonds. “Gross,” he decided and then ripped the collar of his shirt off like it was nothing, along with a chunk of the bottom of it. “Don’t move,” he ordered as he folded the fabric over on itself a few times and then pressed it tightly over the wound on Sam’s head. He used the collar of his shirt to tie the fabric down.

His fingers were absurdly gentle as he worked. The warmth that had radiated off of his body was gone now, fingers cool against the bruise-hot burn of Sam’s skin. Sam didn’t realize his eyes had fallen shut until Bucky gently touched his other cheek and tilted his face down just a little. “Don’t die,” he said.

Sam didn’t have the energy to glare at him. “Pot, kettle,” he managed to say. He pulled Bucky’s hand away from his face and looked around the room. “You know this wasn’t everyone.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the rest handled,” he promised and held up a grenade.

“What the fuck?” Sam asked, staring at it like he’d never seen one before. “Why did someone just have that on them?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s not even a good one,” he said disappointedly. “There probably isn’t anyone else here, but at least no one will be able to come back,” he offered. He crossed to the window and removed the remaining glass with his metal arm, still looking at it like it was personally offending him.

They helped each other through the window with the unspoken agreement not to mention it again after this. Both of them had enough blood dripping in their eyes and rattled brains to warrant it just this once.

“You handled yourself pretty well without your wings,” Bucky offered as they walked away from the house. “How big do you suppose that window is?”

“I was trained before I had the wings,” Sam pointed out sharply. He glanced over his shoulder to reassess the broken window. “Four by six, you think?”

“Sure, the whole thing, but what about the cleared part?”

“Two by three? Four?”

Bucky regarded the grenade in his hand and the distance between them and the house. “I can do that,” he decided.

They walked a few meters more before he turned fully, pulled the pin of the grenade, and then threw it with an accuracy that would have more Cy Young winners seething with jealousy. Not to mention the distance and force of it too.

A few seconds later, the house exploded. Bucky was right. It wasn’t a very good grenade.

Sam looked around the wooded area they were in, a marginal field around them before the trees started up again, which was probably best because of the fire now. “So, where the fuck are we?” he asked.

“And how the fuck do we get home?” Bucky finished with a ridiculous perturbed set to his lips.

“Ah, shit, that asshole still had my phone,” Sam groaned when the patting of his pants came up empty. He knew Steve’s number by heart, but he didn’t imagine Bucky had his phone on him either.

“We could go see where he went,” Bucky suggested. “That explosion was not cool enough to take out any of the cars.”

“Neither one of us is in any condition to go track someone down.”

“Could be fun.”

Bucky was already looking at him when Sam glanced over to see if he was being serious. “You wanna try to live out the last third of an action movie?”

“Second third at best,” Bucky scoffed with a wave. “Lots more adventures ahead of us. The Winter Soldier and the Falcon has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It would absolutely be The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Captain Good-Looking and  The Grouchy Soldier. Angel and Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky interrupted, reaching for Sam’s hand. For just a second, Sam’s heart may have stuttered in his chest. But all Bucky was doing was unwinding the bandage Sam had put around his wrist earlier so that he could patch up the sluggishly bleeding gashes on Sam’s knuckles now. “Come on, Pilot Hyperbole. We’re losing daylight.”

“The Falcon and the Hound Dog,” Sam added, following Bucky as they skirted the smoldering building to find a car.

They drove away into an easing sunset.

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a kudos and a note on AO3

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Why are LED headlights more visible than classic headlights under sunlight?

LED headlights are more conspicuous in sunlight than traditional halogen or xenon headlights, mainly due to the following scientific principles and design advantages:

High color temperature matches the sunlight spectrum

Color temperature characteristics:

The color temperature of LEDs is usually 5000K-6500K (cold white light), close to midday sunlight (5500K), and has a high overlap with the natural light spectrum. Traditional halogen lamps have a lower color temperature (3000K-3500K, yellowish), and are easily drowned out by ambient light in sunlight.

Human eye sensitivity:

The human eye is most sensitive to 555nm wavelength (yellow-green light), but in sunlight, high color temperature blue-white light (450-500nm) is more easily perceived because it forms a higher contrast with the sky background (Weber-Fechner law).

Ultra-high brightness and luminous efficiency

Luminous flux density:

The brightness of a single LED lamp bead can reach 200-300 lumens/watt (halogen lamps are only 20-30 lumens/watt), and the light intensity per unit area (candela/square meter) is 3-5 times higher. For example, the total luminous flux of a certain LED headlight is about 4000 lumens, while the halogen lamp is only 1500 lumens.

Light saturation resistance:

The ground illumination under direct sunlight is about 100,000 lux. Through the focusing design, the local light intensity of LED can reach 20,000 candela (cd), while the halogen lamp is only about 8000cd. The former is easier to break through the interference of ambient light.

Precise beam control technology

Microlens array (MLA):

The LED chip integrates thousands of micron-level lenses to focus the light into a parallel beam with a divergence angle of 0.1°, reducing scattering losses.

Active matrix control:

For example, Audi's Matrix LED system dynamically enhances the brightness of specific areas (such as road sign reflection areas) under strong light by independently controlling 64 LED units.

Spectrum optimization and penetration

Blue light excitation phosphor:

LED excites YAG phosphor with 450nm blue light to emit broad-spectrum white light. Its short-wavelength component (blue-violet light) is easier to penetrate haze under Rayleigh scattering, improving long-distance recognition rate under sunlight.

Color rendering index (CRI):

LED's CRI>80 (halogen lamp CRI≈100). Although the color rendering is slightly inferior, the high CRI reduces the contrast under strong light. The "unnatural light" characteristics of LED unexpectedly enhance recognition.

Dynamic response and flicker suppression

Nanosecond response:

LED turn-on time <100ns, when the vehicle is bumpy or the sun is flickering, it can maintain stable light output. Traditional filament bulbs have a thermal inertia of 100-200ms, which is prone to residual visual blur.

PWM dimming technology:

Through 1000Hz high-frequency pulse width modulation, while maintaining brightness, the human eye can avoid stroboscopic perception and enhance dynamic visual capture capabilities.

Thermal management advantages

Low temperature operation:

The LED junction temperature is controlled below 85°C (halogen filament reaches 2500°C) to avoid light decay caused by high temperature. Under the scorching sun, the LED brightness decays by only 3%/1000 hours, while the halogen lamp decays by 15%/1000 hours under the same conditions.

Empirical data

Contrast test (ISO 16505 standard):

Under 100,000 lux simulated daylight, the recognition rate of LED headlights at 100 meters is 92%, while that of halogen lamps is only 68%.

Accident rate statistics (NHTSA report):

Vehicles equipped with LED daytime running lights have a 24% reduction in the rate of multi-vehicle collision accidents during the day, while traditional lighting groups only reduce it by 8%.

Conclusion LEDs break through the background noise of sunlight through high color temperature spectrum matching, ultra-high light efficiency, precise optical design and dynamic response, achieving an "optical breakthrough". This advantage not only improves safety, but also promotes the evolution of automotive lighting towards intelligent light field control.

[imbiowaresbitch]

Praise You

My Year of the OTP November fic!

Castiel needs a fresh start after his divorce. He doesn't really have a plan, so is heading east to visit his friend Balthazar and crash in his spare room for a few days before finding a place of his own. A traffic jam turns him off course, but maybe where he's headed is finally the right direction. Accepting himself is a major step toward his own happiness, but is he ready for what that means? To ask for what he wants? ~~

Castiel suppressed a sigh, knowing Gabriel would misinterpret it. As though wanting a fresh start after a divorce was all that unusual.

"You're sure about this, Cassie?" 

Gabriel's voice was muffled through the radio, and Castiel rolled his eyes.

"Gabriel, if you're going to talk at me while I'm driving, take whatever it is out of your mouth and use your words properly."

There was a POP!, like a tootsie-pop pulled from his brother's mouth, and a disgruntled huff.

"How do you know it's some thing and not some one?!"

Castiel snorted. 

"Because I can hear the ambient noise from the café in the background. So unless you've really updated Happy Hour," Castiel said sarcastically, "it's probably candy."

"You've got me there. You wouldn't believe the cost of a licence for that kind of –"

"Sorry, I'm about to enter a tunnel. You're breaking up!" Castiel interrupted, tapping away on the wheel of his new – to him – Mark V and staring at the gridlocked traffic ahead of him.

"Don't even try it; I checked your route. There aren't any tunnels on the way!"

"I'll find one if I have to. Now shut up for a minute and let me drive, Gabriel," Castiel ordered, checking over his shoulder and signalling right. 

Spotting an opening, he quickly pulled into the next lane and turned right on the side street. His GPS beeped at him.

"Off-route. Recalculating…"

"Never mind that," he muttered at it and followed the signs to the flyover for the northbound interstate.

"Call me when you get to Balthazar's, alright?" Gabriel said, and Castiel glanced guiltily at the GPS, which was urging him to turn around and rejoin the parking lot it called the eastbound route. 

"Yeah, about that. Can you call him for me and tell him I'm not getting in tonight? Traffic is completely backed up, so I'm either going to have to find a motel or another route."

"That's what you get for leaving so late in the day, Cassie. I tried to tell you –"

"Uh huh, ever the big brother, right, short stuff?"

"Oh-ho! Cassie is sassy today! Alright, I'll call Zar. But you text me when you know where you're staying tonight, or I'll call Michael and file a missing person's report!"

"No, you won't," Castiel argued, laughing.

"No. I won't. Only because he hasn't forgiven me for the last time I called that in."

Castiel snorted, remembering their youngest brother's outrage when he found out it was a prank.

"Gabriel, if you want him to forgive you, you'll probably need to do the community service hours you said you would."

"Ughhh. Who died and made you the boss of me?" Gabriel demanded, but Castiel could hear the fondness in his older brother's voice.

"That would be your maturity. We gave it a lovely service. I sent flowers."

Gabriel guffawed. "I haven't heard you like this in too long, Cassie! You know something? I think this move will be good for you!"

"I think you're right," he mused, grinning. It felt freeing to smile like that. "I'm hanging up now. I need to figure out where I'm going!"

"Bye, Cassie! Do something I'd do!"

"Only if you have bail money," Castiel teased. "Bye."

Castiel disconnected the call and pulled his aviators from the overhead visor, slipping them on. He ran his fingers through his carefully combed hair, scratching at his scalp and messing up the neatly coiffed style he'd arranged out of habit. Rolling up his sleeves one after the other, he loosened his tie and hauled it off over his head. He stretched, cracking his neck, and popped a couple buttons on his shirt.

"Let's see where this road goes."

~~

Many thanks to @nickelkeep for the beta! Read it on AO3.

[mad-bird-writes]

The Lost Souls' Revival - An Excerpt

Subtitle: "Woman Quits Job, Is Astounded To Find It Does Not Solve Any Of Her Problems"

(no real content warnings, just a woman in creative burnout musing about her life while she tries and fails to write. also someone somewhere slams a door and this definitely won't be a problem later. ALSO also not very plotty, more a case of putting characters where they need to be, sowing seeds of discord so cool shit can happen later.)

Now home for good, Amari sat at her desk, slipped on her battered headphones – the ones that Zoe had lovingly nicknamed “The Home Invader’s Best Friend” – touched pen to paper and waited for that mythic feeling of liberation and release to engulf her. She’d won her freedom, plucked it right from the claws of the beast, and now she could finally begin. The grey fog in her mind would part and out would pour all the beauty, the dreams, the words and pictures that she’d been suppressing for months for lack of a free moment. No more would fatigue, writer’s block or simple lack of free time bind her.

She was free.

Pen to paper.

Amari rolled her shoulders in readiness and turned up her music. Ambient, no words. No distractions.

Her mind was silent.

Back home, no, back in Birchwood, that far-flung nowhere town, her mind had never been silent. As if feeling the need to make up for the oppressive silence that surrounded her, it was always overflowing with thoughts, colour, light, noise, with half-forgotten songs, split-second fragments of films and books, characters and lines of dialogue both cribbed and created, brief, blinding flashes of brilliance.

As a child, she’d daydreamt like she was a fish and her imagination was the only water she could breathe in, to the detriment of everything else. Her school reports had suffered, her social life had hung by a worn thread, and her parents’ second-hand ambitions for her had slowly waned. They’d wanted a lawyer, a doctor, a high-flying businesswoman, someone they could boast about at family gatherings.

Instead, they’d been landed with a scatterbrained dreamer.

For all that they never mentioned it directly, their disappointment in her had always been glaringly obvious.

Amari had never cared. In her own mind, she was powerful, a queen, a god.

As she’d grown older, she’d turned to writing, transmuting her dizzying, dazzling daily fantasies into scrawled torrents of hard-written words; later, word documents with absurd page counts and no endings.

None of her stories ever ended, they merely paused and waited.

Hungry for another outlet and encouraged by an art teacher on the brink of retirement, she learned to draw, to paint, to collage. That art classroom, with its paint-scabbed tables and lingering scent of clay, acrylic and hairspray, became her sanctuary. She’d be late to fifth period every day, with graphite on her palms and paint on her shirt, lunch untouched in her shoulder bag, but she’d feel ready to face the dragging afternoon with a fresh daydream brewing behind her eyes, ready to be scribbled down on the bus home.

She’d passed her exams, though by the skin of her teeth with no grades worth celebrating. A vague promise of art college had acted as an effective lure.

Though, of course, it had never materialised. She couldn’t remember why now. Lack of money or disappointment in her overall mediocrity, or else they’d never planned to follow through on their promise in the first place. Either way, it had driven a sizeable wedge between her and her parents, further straining a relationship already made tenuous between their mile-high standards and the usual trials of adolescence.

The consolation prize of a botched, painful media studies course – it’s artistic! That’s what you wanted! – did the rest of the damage.

Hard-won qualifications in hand, Amari had taken an entry-level position with an advertising company in the city and a room in the cheapest flat she could find. She’d left Birchwood without fanfare or remorse, taking every notebook, sketchpad and dream with her.

At first, the work had merely been soulless and dull, easy. The pace had reminded her of school; cliquey chatter that meant nothing to her, work that she could do but that bored her senseless. Always a feeling of disconnect, of subtle isolation, trapped behind a membrane through which words but no feelings could pass.

Companionship without bonding. It was lonely, but Amari could get by on solitude, or so she’d thought, until she met Zoe.

Their paths were never likely to have crossed, in hindsight, with Amari too wrapped up in her work and personal projects to bother with socializing, and Zoe far too shy. However, one frigid December night, in the outdoor smoking area of a swanky city bar (the chosen venue for both of their workplace Christmas parties), they’d collided. Quite literally, in fact, with Zoe beelining for the closest exit and Amari desperately hunting for her lighter.

Synchronised apologies were quickly exchanged, followed by shy chuckles, then names.

Amari had taken the liberty of buying Zoe a drink, and an hour later, they’d fled the scene without saying goodbye to their respective parties, to spend the rest of the night marvelling at half-broken Christmas lights like little children and hanging off one another’s every word like long-lost friends.

It had felt like true love, if you believed in such a thing.

Amari never had.

But Zoe had the bluest eyes, a figure like a Celtic fertility goddess, and perhaps the sweetest, purest soul of anyone she’d ever met. So, once the honeymoon period had come to an end and the intrusive thoughts about the inevitable, ugly crash-and-burn of their relationship had begun to burrow into Amari’s psyche like maggots infesting a piece of roadkill, she’d stayed silent, unwilling and unable to be the one to take a hammer to the flawed stained-glass window that was their life together. She’d let tiny grievances pass unremarked, let them pile up like fallen leaves, and turn a painful blind eye to the things that really annoyed her, all the while telling herself that these were necessary sacrifices, especially in the name of someone else’s happiness.

Someone who deserved far, far more than Amari could ever give, but didn’t have the nerve to go out and seek it.

(There was a fleeting shift in the air, tangible through her headphones, as if someone had opened and closed – slammed, really – a door close by. Amari shrugged and tried to stay on track, mentally. It was a losing battle, but she’d fought for this moment, and fuck, she was going to make the most of it.)

[gotunez1]

Top-Rated Earphones Wired with Mic in 2025: Premium Sound Meets Everyday Comfort

In an age dominated by wireless gadgets, earphones wired with mic continue to maintain their stronghold among audiophiles, professionals, students, and casual listeners alike. Why? Because they offer a reliable, lag-free, and crystal-clear audio experience — without the hassle of battery life or pairing issues. As we step into 2025, wired earphones are getting smarter, more stylish, and packed with features that rival even high-end wireless alternatives. If you're searching for the perfect blend of premium sound and everyday comfort, you’re in the right place.

Why Choose Earphones Wired with Mic in 2025? Wired earphones are making a major comeback in 2025, thanks to their consistent audio performance, improved build quality, and user-friendly designs. Whether you're attending virtual meetings, listening to your favorite playlist, or gaming on the go, a good pair of earphones wired with mic ensures that your voice is heard loud and clear — with zero dropouts.

Moreover, modern wired earphones have embraced the evolution of user preferences. They now offer better compatibility with mobile devices, support for voice assistants, and enhanced call clarity. Plus, you don’t have to break the bank to enjoy high-quality audio — there are plenty of affordable wired earphones with mic for mobile that offer exceptional value without compromising on comfort or durability.

What to Look for in Wired Earphones in 2025 When shopping for wired earphones in 2025, the focus has shifted to smart design, comfort-driven ergonomics, and immersive audio. Here are a few features to look out for:

Noise Isolation or Cancellation: Many of the latest models come with noise cancelling wired earphones with mic features that block ambient noise for clearer calls and uninterrupted music sessions.

Tangle-Free Cables: Braided or flat cables reduce tangling and enhance durability.

In-Line Controls: Volume and call controls offer convenience, especially when you’re on the move.

Universal Compatibility: A standard 3.5mm jack ensures easy use with a wide range of smartphones, tablets, laptops, and other devices.

Ergonomic Fit: Look for lightweight designs with multiple ear tip sizes for a personalized fit.

Spotlight: Tunez Dhwani H117 Wired Earphones Among the emerging favorites in the wired audio space is the Tunez Dhwani H117 Wired Earphones, a model that combines premium performance with everyday usability. Equipped with a 3.5mm jack and a 1.2-meter cable, these earphones deliver crisp highs, punchy bass, and clear vocals, making them ideal for music, calls, and video chats. The built-in mic ensures clear communication, while the in-line volume control adds a layer of convenience. Its sleek and minimalistic design complements both professional and casual settings.

Whether you're a student attending online classes, a professional taking Zoom calls, or a commuter catching up on podcasts, the Tunez Dhwani H117 provides a seamless audio experience. And the best part? It offers premium features without the premium price tag — a perfect example of an affordable wired earphones with mic for mobile that doesn’t cut corners.

2025 Trends: What’s Hot in Wired Earphones? Hybrid Noise Cancellation: This advanced feature is now more accessible in mid-range models, offering improved ambient sound suppression.

Eco-Friendly Materials: Brands are adopting sustainable packaging and recyclable components.

Hi-Res Audio Support: Wired earphones are now optimized for lossless audio formats for audiophiles.

Fashion Meets Function: Earphones in 2025 are designed to be as stylish as they are functional — with bold colors, metal finishes, and premium feel.

Final Thoughts In a world of fast-changing tech, earphones wired with mic continue to prove their value in 2025. Their unmatched reliability, sound quality, and affordability make them a smart choice for users of all types. Whether you're drawn to the noise cancelling wired earphones with mic for distraction-free calls or seeking affordable wired earphones with mic for mobile use, there's a perfect pair out there for you.

So if you’re ready to experience premium sound without spending a fortune, consider upgrading to one of 2025’s top-rated wired earphones — and let your audio speak for itself.

FAQ's

Q1. Are wired earphones with mic still worth buying in 2025? Yes, they offer reliable sound quality, zero latency, and are perfect for calls, music, and meetings without worrying about battery life.

Q2. What are the benefits of earphones wired with mic? They provide clear audio, uninterrupted voice calls, and often include in-line controls for easy access to volume and playback.

Q3. Do affordable wired earphones with mic for mobile offer good quality? Absolutely. Many budget-friendly models, like the Tunez Dhwani H117, deliver excellent sound and features at a great price.

Q4. What is the use of noise cancelling wired earphones with mic? They reduce background noise, making them ideal for calls, online meetings, or enjoying music in noisy environments.

Q5. Is the Tunez Dhwani H117 compatible with all devices? Yes, it comes with a standard 3.5mm jack, making it compatible with most smartphones, tablets, laptops, and audio players.

[tranquilglobal]

How Acoustic Panels for Ceilings Improve Noise Control in Commercial Spaces

Today, productivity-driven commercial environments, noise is more than just a distraction—it’s a silent disruptor. Open-plan offices, retail environments, hospitality spaces, and conference halls often struggle with echo, reverberation, and speech intelligibility. The result? Decreased focus, strained communication, and poor customer experiences.

While flooring, furniture, and walls receive their fair share of design and acoustic treatment, ceilings remain an underutilized canvas. That’s where Acoustic Panels for Ceilings come into play—not only to suppress unwanted sound but also to elevate the entire spatial experience.

Let’s explore how these high-performing, design-friendly solutions revolutionize noise control across commercial settings.

1. The Overlooked Zone: Why Ceilings Matter in Acoustic Strategy

When sound travels in a room, it bounces off every hard surface—walls, floors, glass, and especially ceilings. Unlike other elements, ceilings offer a large, uninterrupted surface area that makes them prime real estate for acoustic optimization. Yet, they’re often ignored in noise mitigation plans.

Installing Acoustic Panels for Ceilings directly addresses this oversight. By absorbing airborne sound at the ceiling level—where it tends to accumulate—these panels drastically reduce echo and reverberation, making the space more acoustically balanced.

2. More Than Just Soundproofing: The Science Behind Acoustic Panels

The term “soundproofing” is often misused when referring to acoustic panels. Rather than blocking external noise, Acoustic Panels for Ceilings are designed to absorb internal sound waves. They prevent noise from bouncing around the room and minimize the lingering echo that plagues open spaces.

Made from materials like fiberglass, PET, foam, or composite boards, these panels trap sound energy and convert it into negligible heat through friction and vibration. The result? Clearer conversations, focused workspaces, and a noticeable drop in ambient noise levels.

3. Open Offices, Closed Distractions: A Better Work Environment

The modern workplace thrives on collaboration—but often at the cost of concentration. Open-plan layouts might foster teamwork, but they also amplify unwanted sounds—keyboard clicks, phone rings, and spontaneous chatter.

Acoustic Panels for Ceilings play a vital role in dampening this auditory clutter. They allow employees to enjoy the benefits of a shared environment without being overwhelmed by constant noise. Studies have shown that better acoustics lead to enhanced concentration, reduced stress, and improved employee well-being.

4. Acoustics Meets Aesthetics: Designs That Speak Volumes

Gone are the days when acoustic treatments meant dull, clinical-looking installations. Today’s Acoustic Panels for Ceilings come in a variety of finishes, shapes, and textures, from baffles and clouds to tiles and custom-cut designs.

Designers can integrate acoustics seamlessly into the interior language of a space. Whether it's a minimalist corporate office, a vibrant co-working hub, or an upscale restaurant, there’s a panel style that fits the mood and enhances the visual identity.

This dual-purpose functionality—acoustic control with aesthetic appeal—makes them a favorite among architects and designers seeking both form and function.

5. Ceiling-Based Noise Control in Diverse Commercial Spaces

Acoustic Panels for Ceilings find their application across a wide spectrum of commercial environments:

Educational Institutions: Classrooms, lecture halls, and libraries benefit from enhanced speech clarity and reduced noise interference.

Healthcare Facilities: Patient areas and consultation rooms require acoustic privacy and calm environments.

Retail Stores: Better acoustics can increase dwell time and create a more pleasant shopping experience.

Hospitality Venues: In restaurants and hotels, panels help control crowd noise, contributing to a more relaxing ambiance.

Conference & Board Rooms: They ensure that meetings remain intelligible even when multiple voices are involved.

Each of these settings deals with distinct acoustic challenges, yet ceiling panels provide a universally adaptable solution that can be tailored to each environment.

6. Easy Installation, Long-Term Benefits

Unlike major construction overhauls, Acoustic Panels for Ceilings offer non-invasive, flexible installation options. They can be mounted directly, suspended as clouds, or installed within existing grid systems.

Moreover, these panels often come with Class A fire ratings, low VOC certifications, and are made from sustainable or recycled materials—making them a smart, safe, and eco-conscious choice for long-term use.

The benefits extend beyond acoustics. These panels often improve lighting diffusion, enhance HVAC efficiency by not blocking airflow, and can even contribute to LEED or WELL building certification points.

7. ROI of Acoustic Wellness: An Investment in Productivity

Business owners and facility managers often ask: “Is acoustic treatment really worth the investment?” The answer is a resounding yes.

Poor acoustics lead to more errors, repeated communication, dissatisfied customers, and employee fatigue—all of which translate into financial losses. By installing Acoustic Panels for Ceilings, organizations witness tangible gains in employee output, customer satisfaction, and brand perception.

It’s an investment in wellness and experience—two non-negotiables in today’s competitive commercial landscape.

8. The Future is Up: Elevate Your Space with Ceiling Solutions

Ceilings are no longer just structural necessities; they are becoming critical design elements. As commercial interiors evolve, Acoustic Panels for Ceilings are stepping into the spotlight—not just as sound absorbers, but as statement pieces.

In an age where functionality and design go hand in hand, these panels serve as a bridge between visual sophistication and auditory comfort. Whether you're retrofitting a legacy space or building from scratch, making ceilings part of your acoustic blueprint is no longer optional—it’s essential.

Final Thoughts

Noise is inevitable, but discomfort isn’t. As businesses aim to create meaningful, functional spaces, Acoustic Panels for Ceilings offer a silent yet powerful solution to one of the most persistent problems in commercial design.

They blend science and style, ease and efficiency, performance and personality. And in doing so, they transform the ceiling—from an afterthought into a cornerstone of acoustic excellence.

[googlepixelbudspro2]

Google Pixel Buds Pro 2: The Ultimate Wireless Earbuds for Audiophiles and Android Lovers

Wireless earbuds have become an essential accessory for modern users, offering convenience, style, and superior sound quality. Among the top contenders in this category is Google’s newest innovation — the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2. These next-generation earbuds aim to redefine the wireless audio experience, especially for Android users, and stand tall against competitors like Apple AirPods Pro 2 and Samsung Galaxy Buds2 Pro.

In this article, we will dive deep into the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2, exploring their features, performance, sound quality, improvements from the previous generation, and why they might be the best choice for your next wireless earbuds purchase.

A Quick Overview: What Are Google Pixel Buds Pro 2?

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are premium true wireless earbuds developed by Google, designed to deliver high-quality sound, intelligent features, and seamless integration with Android devices. They are the successors to the original Pixel Buds Pro, which received praise for their noise-canceling technology and user-friendly features.

Key Features of Google Pixel Buds Pro 2

Let’s take a closer look at the standout features of the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2:

Improved Active Noise Cancellation (ANC) Google has significantly upgraded the ANC in the Pixel Buds Pro 2, making them capable of filtering out ambient noise more effectively. Whether you’re on a crowded train or in a noisy office, the earbuds create a peaceful audio bubble.

AI-Powered Adaptive Sound One of the smartest features of the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 is its AI-driven adaptive sound. The earbuds adjust volume levels based on your surroundings in real time, ensuring an optimal listening experience without the need for manual adjustments.

Enhanced Transparency Mode Transparency mode allows you to hear external sounds clearly without removing the earbuds. With the Pixel Buds Pro 2, Google has refined this feature, making conversations and ambient noise sound more natural.

Spatial Audio Support For an immersive experience, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 now supports spatial audio with head tracking. This makes them ideal for watching movies or playing games, creating a surround-sound-like experience.

Multipoint Connectivity Like the previous model, these earbuds can connect to two devices simultaneously. You can switch between your laptop and phone without needing to reconnect manually.

Improved Call Quality With upgraded beamforming microphones and noise suppression, the call quality on the Pixel Buds Pro 2 is crystal clear, even in windy or noisy environments.

Design and Comfort

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 maintain a sleek, minimalist design similar to their predecessor but with minor tweaks to enhance comfort and fit. They are lightweight and ergonomically designed to stay in your ears for long hours without discomfort.

Sound Quality: Audiophile-Grade Experience

Sound quality is where the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 truly shine. The bass is deep and punchy without overpowering the mids and highs, making them suitable for all genres of music.

Thanks to Google’s tuning, vocals come through crisply, and instruments are separated clearly, giving listeners an immersive and balanced audio experience. Whether you’re streaming Spotify, watching YouTube, or taking a Zoom call, the audio performance is exceptional.

Battery Life and Charging

You can expect up to 11 hours of playback on a single charge without ANC and around 7 hours with ANC enabled. With the charging case, the total listening time extends to up to 31 hours.

The case supports both USB-C and Qi wireless charging. A quick 5-minute charge gives you about 1 hour of playback — perfect for when you’re in a rush.

Google Assistant Integration

Being a Google product, the Pixel Buds Pro 2 offer tight integration with Google Assistant. Just say “Hey Google” and control music, check notifications, or even translate languages in real time using Google Translate — all hands-free.

This feature is especially useful for travelers or people on the go, making the earbuds more than just an audio device — they become a smart assistant in your ear

Android Ecosystem Compatibility

Pairing is instant and seamless, just like how AirPods work with iPhones. If you’re deep into the Android ecosystem, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are the best companion for your devices.

Price and Availability

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are expected to be priced competitively, around USD 199 to $229, INR ₹40,000 to ₹45,000, making them a premium but still affordable option compared to other high-end earbuds.

Buy Now

Final Verdict: Are Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 Worth It?

FAQs About Google Pixel Buds Pro 2

Q1. Are Pixel Buds Pro 2 compatible with iPhones? Yes, but you’ll miss out on features like Fast Pair and Google Assistant integration.

Q2. Do the Pixel Buds Pro 2 support wireless charging? Yes, the case supports both USB-C and Qi wireless charging.

Q3. Can I use only one earbud at a time? Yes, you can use either Bud independently.

Conclusion:

With thoughtful design, intelligent features, and high-fidelity sound, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are a top-tier choice in 2025 for anyone seeking premium wireless earbuds. Whether you’re in it for the tech or the tunes, they deliver on all fronts.

[allnewtrending]

Google Pixel Buds Pro 2: The Ultimate Wireless Earbuds for Audiophiles and Android Lovers

Wireless earbuds have become an essential accessory for modern users, offering convenience, style, and superior sound quality. Among the top contenders in this category is Google’s newest innovation — the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2. These next-generation earbuds aim to redefine the wireless audio experience, especially for Android users, and stand tall against competitors like Apple AirPods Pro 2 and Samsung Galaxy Buds2 Pro.

In this article, we will dive deep into the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2, exploring their features, performance, sound quality, improvements from the previous generation, and why they might be the best choice for your next wireless earbuds purchase.

A Quick Overview: What Are Google Pixel Buds Pro 2?

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are premium true wireless earbuds developed by Google, designed to deliver high-quality sound, intelligent features, and seamless integration with Android devices. They are the successors to the original Pixel Buds Pro, which received praise for their noise-canceling technology and user-friendly features.

Key Features of Google Pixel Buds Pro 2

Let’s take a closer look at the standout features of the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2:

Improved Active Noise Cancellation (ANC) Google has significantly upgraded the ANC in the Pixel Buds Pro 2, making them capable of filtering out ambient noise more effectively. Whether you’re on a crowded train or in a noisy office, the earbuds create a peaceful audio bubble.

AI-Powered Adaptive Sound One of the smartest features of the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 is its AI-driven adaptive sound. The earbuds adjust volume levels based on your surroundings in real time, ensuring an optimal listening experience without the need for manual adjustments.

Enhanced Transparency Mode Transparency mode allows you to hear external sounds clearly without removing the earbuds. With the Pixel Buds Pro 2, Google has refined this feature, making conversations and ambient noise sound more natural.

Spatial Audio Support For an immersive experience, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 now supports spatial audio with head tracking. This makes them ideal for watching movies or playing games, creating a surround-sound-like experience.

Multipoint Connectivity Like the previous model, these earbuds can connect to two devices simultaneously. You can switch between your laptop and phone without needing to reconnect manually.

Improved Call Quality With upgraded beamforming microphones and noise suppression, the call quality on the Pixel Buds Pro 2 is crystal clear, even in windy or noisy environments.

Design and Comfort

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 maintain a sleek, minimalist design similar to their predecessor but with minor tweaks to enhance comfort and fit. They are lightweight and ergonomically designed to stay in your ears for long hours without discomfort.

Sound Quality: Audiophile-Grade Experience

Sound quality is where the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 truly shine. The bass is deep and punchy without overpowering the mids and highs, making them suitable for all genres of music.

Thanks to Google’s tuning, vocals come through crisply, and instruments are separated clearly, giving listeners an immersive and balanced audio experience. Whether you’re streaming Spotify, watching YouTube, or taking a Zoom call, the audio performance is exceptional.

Battery Life and Charging

You can expect up to 11 hours of playback on a single charge without ANC and around 7 hours with ANC enabled. With the charging case, the total listening time extends to up to 31 hours.

The case supports both USB-C and Qi wireless charging. A quick 5-minute charge gives you about 1 hour of playback — perfect for when you’re in a rush.

Google Assistant Integration

Being a Google product, the Pixel Buds Pro 2 offer tight integration with Google Assistant. Just say “Hey Google” and control music, check notifications, or even translate languages in real time using Google Translate — all hands-free.

This feature is especially useful for travelers or people on the go, making the earbuds more than just an audio device — they become a smart assistant in your ear

Android Ecosystem Compatibility

Pairing is instant and seamless, just like how AirPods work with iPhones. If you’re deep into the Android ecosystem, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are the best companion for your devices.

Price and Availability

The Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are expected to be priced competitively, around USD 199 to $229, INR ₹40,000 to ₹45,000, making them a premium but still affordable option compared to other high-end earbuds.

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Final Verdict: Are Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 Worth It?

FAQs About Google Pixel Buds Pro 2

Q1. Are Pixel Buds Pro 2 compatible with iPhones? Yes, but you’ll miss out on features like Fast Pair and Google Assistant integration.

Q2. Do the Pixel Buds Pro 2 support wireless charging? Yes, the case supports both USB-C and Qi wireless charging.

Q3. Can I use only one earbud at a time? Yes, you can use either Bud independently.

Conclusion:

With thoughtful design, intelligent features, and high-fidelity sound, the Google Pixel Buds Pro 2 are a top-tier choice in 2025 for anyone seeking premium wireless earbuds. Whether you’re in it for the tech or the tunes, they deliver on all fronts.